Tangled Hearts

by hBunzie

Summary:

Harper Bradshaw was never meant to fit into Mystic Falls. A bastard child of one of the town’s founding families, she was cast aside and left to live with her dysfunctional Aunt in the part of town everyone else pretended didn’t exist. She ran away the first chance she got, leaving behind a life she never wanted and a best friend who needed her more than she realized. Now, years later, Harper is back in Mystic Falls, finding herself tangled in a supernatural world she never asked to be part of. And as secrets unravel and blood is spilled, one thing becomes clear: anger has always been Harper’s weapon, but in a town like Mystic Falls, it might just be her downfall.

There will also be Damon, Elijah, Klaus, and Kol smut. Lots of smut. Cheers!

Chapter 1: The Funeral

Notes:

Hi everyone! First of all, this is my first ever fanfiction and quite frankly the first thing I've ever written. I honestly don't know where this story will go, but I needed to start a new hobby before school and work take over my life. I was heavily inspired from "Take a Bite" by @lacrymaria_olor and "Patisserie" by @WickedlyEmma when writing this, so go read those too :). The story begins around season 3, ep 5 of TVD, but I deviate from the plot (as you'll see in this first chapter). Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

The itchy polyester dress clings to Harper’s body, the fabric stiff and unyielding no matter how many times she tugs at the sleeves. She stands in front of the cracked mirror in her old teenage bedroom, her own reflection staring back at her with eyes she barely recognizes. The air is thick with the stale smell of cigarettes and cheap perfume, making the peeling wallpaper look hazy in the afternoon sun. Outside, sirens wail in the distance—a reminder that Mystic Falls isn’t the quiet, picture-perfect town everyone pretends it to be. 

Harper exhales slowly, smoothing out the black dress she stole from her Aunt’s closet before stepping into the living room. 

Aunt Trudy is sprawled on the couch, a cigarette balanced between two fingers as she exhales a thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. The TV flickers in the dim light, the only glow in the room since Trudy keeps the blinds permanently shut—a habit she hasn’t changed since Harper left. The local news anchor’s voice drifts through the room.

“Tragedy struck Mystic Falls this week as 18-year-old Vicki Donovan was found dead Monday evening just outside of town. Authorities report that the body was completely drained of blood, and law enforcement has since attributed the attack to a mountain lion.”

Trudy turns her attention to Harper as she grabs her keys and starts heading out the door. “Leaving already?” Trudy asks with an accusatory eyebrow raised. 

“I’m going to Vicki’s funeral. It’s today. I told you last night when I got in, remember?” Harper replies. She obviously doesn’t. 

“Vicki Donovan, huh?” Trudy chuckles, taking a drag from her cigarette, the smoke swirling around her blonde curls. “Her mom’s a whore. If you see her, let her know she owes me twenty bucks, alright?” Her southern accent remains thick, despite living here for over twenty-five years. 

“Unbelievable. You haven’t changed at all.” Harper mutters, rolling her eyes as she steps out the door. She makes her way across the lifeless lawn, her footsteps heavy, before reaching her car.  

—

“I don’t even know why we’re here.” Stefan mutters, his voice flat as his eyes scan the field surrounding the funeral home, searching for an afternoon snack. “I mean, she’s been dead for almost a year now, and oh yeah— you killed her.” 

Stefan’s lack of humanity was starting to really get on Damon’s nerves. It hadn’t even been a week since his brother, Klaus, and Vampire Barbie had shown up in Mystic Falls. “Oh, I know–why don’t you take a walk down memory lane and eat the rest of Bambi’s relatives?” Damon shoots back, his smile cold and mocking. 

Elena, walking ahead of them, rubs Jeremy’s back in smooth circles, her movements comforting. She leads him toward the funeral home, on edge from the Salvatores’ insistent presence.

“I much prefer the taste of sorority girls now, brother. Besides, I’m compelled to protect Elena, and I’ll follow her through her boring life until Klaus releases me.” Stefan smirks before sauntering in after Elena and Jeremy.     

Reluctantly, Damon waits for everyone else to enter before joining them in the back. He’d promised Elena he wouldn’t show his face to Matt during the funeral, but insisted on coming in case Stefan decided to take a bite out of any of the attendees.

When the ceremony is about to begin, Damon takes one last sweep of the field and spots a girl stubbing out a cigarette with her shoe before hurrying up the steps toward him. Vicki Donovan was a party animal—sure, she knew almost every junkie from here to Richmond—but none of them had shown up today. So why was this girl here, and why hadn’t he seen her before? 

She had golden tan skin, short, brown hair that shimmered amber in the sun, and a strong greek nose that contrasted with her soft hazel eyes. Nothing about her screamed extraordinary. In fact, she looked like a typical angsty teen, trying to prove her mother wrong about “this phase” by getting too many piercings and painting her nails black. Maybe it was the tattoo on her shoulder peeking out from beneath her square-neck dress that caught his attention, or maybe it was the defensive look on her face when she noticed him staring.

“You the town’s guard dog or somethin’?” the girl asks incredulously, her tone sharp. Without waiting for a response, she walks past him and heads into the funeral home. 

Damon’s smirk widens as he watches her retreating figure, before following her inside with a lazy stride. “I’m more like the town’s charming bad boy, but I wouldn’t mind you putting me on a leash.” He winks at her, his smirk turning into a full grin at the shock on her face.

Her shock quickly turns into a scowl as she outright ignores him, walking into the reception room. Under her breath, she mutters, “What the hell is wrong with this town”. Damon frowns at her indifference, then shrugs and makes his way to the pews to sit with Elena and Stefan. 

The funeral reception proceeds without incident, save for Stefan’s snarky comments and Elena’s constant, worried glances toward Jeremy. The funeral officiant motions for everyone to follow him to the cemetery, where the burial will take place. 

Everyone begins to shuffle out of the building when Caroline comes barreling down the aisle, Bonnie in tow. The look on her face could only mean one thing—she has dirt to spill. “Look at what the cat dragged in.” Caroline tilts her head towards the girl Damon saw outside, who's now in what looks to be a heated argument with Matt Donovan. 

“Oh my God.” Elena says, shocked at the sight of the girl. 

“Holy shit, is that Harper? I thought she died!” Jeremy exclaims, but quickly ducks his head as the people passing by begin to stare. 

Damon raises an eyebrow, cutting into the conversation with a smirk. “Spill the tea, girls—what’s the damage?” he says mockingly, clearly entertained by the drama unfolding before him.

Elena rolls her eyes at his mockery. “That’s Harper Bradshaw. She left Mystic Falls right after she graduated high school.” 

Stefan cuts in this time, shocking everyone with his sudden interest. “The Bradshaws have a daughter? Since when? She doesn’t even look like a Bradshaw.”

“How do you guys not know about Harper Bradshaw? She was the town's talk for years until she just disappeared one day.” Caroline says with utter disbelief before continuing. “She’s a bastard,” she whispers, as if saying the word out loud would summon the founding families to this very room. “The Bradshaws sent her to live with her Aunt once the rumors got too bad.”

“I feel so bad for her. She was best friends with Vicki before she left town.” Bonnie says sympathetically. “No one knows much about her though, she had always stuck around the stoner kids.”

Everyone’s eyes turn to Jeremy. 

“What?” He raises his hands in mock surrender. “She never talked to me. Said I was too young to be hanging around them.” 

Before they can continue, the funeral officiant claps a hand on Stefan’s shoulder, interrupting the conversation. “The burial is about to begin,” he announces. Well, that settles Stefan’s afternoon snack, Damon thinks. 

On his way out, Damon steals a glance at Harper, now walking beside Matt toward the cemetery, her expression solemn. He wishes he listened in on their conversation, but there it is again—that unexplainable intrigue for someone he doesn’t even know. Maybe all the crap with Stefan is finally starting to fry his brain. He shakes his head then turns his attention back to Elena. 

—

Harper can feel eyes on her. It’s an old instinct, one she picked up after years of moving through places she didn’t belong. When she glances up, her gaze locks with a man holding open the door to the Funeral Home. 

He’s good-looking, she’ll give him that. A sharp jaw, piercing blue eyes, and that kind of lazy smirk that screams trouble. The type of guy who walks into a party and leaves with someone else’s girlfriend. Harper’s seen too many guys like him. She’s not buying it. 

She stubs out her cigarette, shaking off the last bit of nerves before walking through the double doors into the Funeral Home. “You the town’s guard dog or somethin’?” Harper asks, trying to make it clear she isn’t the chatty type. 

To her surprise, he either doesn’t take the hint, or just doesn’t care. “I’m more like the town’s charming bad boy, but I wouldn’t mind you putting me on a leash.”

She doesn’t recognize him, but she has no interest in finding out—especially if he knows who she is. Without another word, she walks by him, not giving him the satisfaction of a response. 

To her chagrin, no one else talks to her during the funeral. The officiant drones on, the crowd murmurs their obligatory sympathies, and Harper sits through it all, her mind drifting in and out. No one knew Vicki like she did—well, except Matt. 

The whole scene feels absurd—dressed in black, eyes glued to the ground, everyone pretending to care about Vicki when the only flowers she ever received were the ones that arrived after she died. Harper catches sight of Matt just as he’s about to turn away, and with a quiet sigh, she approaches him. 

“Vicki would’ve wanted The Ramones blaring through the speakers,” she says with a small, wry smile.

Matt looks up, surprise flashing across his face. “Harper! Is that really you?” He pulls her into a hug, then steps back, his expression shifting into something more guarded. “Where the hell have you been? 

“Y’know, here and there. I’m living out in Charlotte right now with some friends.” 

Matt scoffs, the frustration clear in his tone. “You just left, Harp. That hit Vicki really hard, you know? Hell, it hit me hard.”

Harper shifts uneasily, her gaze dropping to the ground before meeting his eyes again. “Matt, I’m sorry. Shit just got really bad with Aunt Trudy. The moment I had an out, I took it.”

Matt’s brows furrow, his expression a mix of anger and sadness. “You left without saying a word, Harper! Vicki didn’t spiral because of Mom—she spiraled because you. You know how much she talked about moving out with you.”

“She had a year left to graduate, Matt!” Harper snaps, her voice tight. “I wasn’t going to take that away from her, no matter how badly she wanted to skip town. I couldn’t let her leave you.” 

When he doesn’t seem convinced, she adds, her tone defensive, “This isn’t my fault. I should’ve called, yeah, but this”—she gestures to the casket now being ushered out the doors—“this isn’t on me.” 

Matt realizes the weight of his outburst and quickly apologizes. “Harp, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” He rubs his hand over his face, exhaustion evident. “I’ve just been dealing with a lot. And Mom…” He sighs, shaking his head. “Mom hasn’t even shown up to the Funeral.” 

Before he can continue, Harper pulls him into a hug. “I know, I know. Let’s just head outside, okay?” 

Together, they walk side by side to the cemetery, watching as Vicki’s casket is lowered into the earth. Tears fall from both their faces as the officiant recites his last prayers, and the crowd begins to disperse. When the last of the attendees leave, Harper pulls a small Polaroid picture from her purse—one of her and Vicki, grinning like fools at a senior party, just before Sheriff Forbes shut it down. She places the photo gently on the gravestone.

“Fly high, babygirl.” When home life went to shit and Harper didn’t want to feel anymore, death seemed like a dream. But seeing death now—really seeing it—makes dreaming about it feel fucking stupid. Vicki had her whole life ahead of her. And even if she had shitty parents and shitty friends, her life mattered just as much as anyone else’s. Maybe even more. A tear slides down Harper’s cheek, but she quickly wipes it away, composing herself. She turns to Matt.

“I think I owe you one for lashing out at your best friend's funeral.” Matt says lightly, his sad smile offering a touch of humor. 

“Don’t feel too bad. I’m leaving tomorrow morning for Charlotte,” Harper replies softly. “Got a job as a bartender, and my manager’s a real pain in the ass.” She winks, a playful glint in her eye despite the somber atmosphere. “I’ll keep that favor in my pocket for when I need it, though.”

After saying their goodbyes, Harper jumps in her car and heads for home. Trudy lives in a small, two-story townhouse tucked away behind the glamour of the Mystic Falls’ elite. The townhouse sits on a street lined with old, worn buildings, cracked sidewalks, and stray dogs roaming the corners. The small front yard is overgrown, with weeds poking through the cracked pavement. Harper can still remember the first time she saw this place, disbelief written all over her face. How can anyone in my family live here? she thought. 

Before she gets out of her car, Harper notices the glow of her phone screen catching the setting sun. A text from Jackie flashes across the screen, drawing her attention: 

Hey Harp. Mickey got caught dealing coke outside Tess’ house, so she’s kicking us out. Everyone seems to be splitting up for a while. At least you’re home now, right? I’m heading up to Boston with Mitch. He said he could get me a job there! I’ll call you later, kid <3. 

“What the fuck?” Harper slams her fists against her steering wheel, her breath heavy with disbelief. How could they just leave her like this? And Mitch? The guy’s a creep who’d never worked a real job in his life. Harper doesn’t know how much of Jackie’s message is true, but one thing is crystal clear: Jackie’s not coming back to get her.

Her fists are sore from the outburst, and she leans her head back against the headrest, staring at the ceiling. She takes a deep breath before pulling out her phone again. She searches for Matt’s name in her contact list, and she types: How about that favor you offered? She hits send before she can think twice, then gets out of the car and heads for the house, slamming the door behind her. The sound echoes in the silence of the street.

Notes:

Ta-Da!!!! I hope y'all enjoyed chapter 1! That took surprisingly longer than I thought to write, so kudos to writers who manage to post consistently. Speaking of kudos, feel free to leave me one hehe ;). I am not too sure whether this will turn into a "why choose" situation, but I've been brainstorming ideas and I've decided that it's a later problem. Ok, I need to stop yapping.

Lots of Love
-Bunzie<3

Chapter 2: The Deal

Summary:

Harper starts her first shift at the Mystic Grill, thanks to a favor from Matt. During her shift, she crosses paths with Damon, Alaric, and Elena, as they discuss their plans to head to Charlotte. Damon struggles to resist Harper’s persistence when she insists on tagging along, and eventually, he’s roped into a deal with her that sets the stage for even more complications.

Notes:

Guys, this is so much fun. As an Engineering major, I never thought writing would be this fun. Anyways, I'm sorry if this chapter is a bit dialogue heavy, I just needed to get the intros done before the drama really starts in the next chapter ;)

Enjoy!

Harper wakes to the screeching sound of her 7 AM alarm, groaning as she blindly reaches out to shut it off. Her fingers fumble against the nightstand, smacking everything but the clock until—thud. She hits the floor, tangled in her sheets, cursing under her breath. 

Two nights ago, she had asked Matt if he knew of any job openings, seeing as she’d be sticking around Mystic Falls for the time being. He said he could pull some strings with his manager to get her a bartending gig at the Mystic Grill. And now, lucky her—today was her first day. She stares up at the cracks in her ceiling, sighing when she notices a new water stain forming in the popcorn texture. Reluctantly, she untangles herself and pushes off the floor, shivering as the frigid air of the room seeps through her thin shirt. The heat must be off. Figures. She throws on a pair of black jeans, knee-high suede boots, and a black t-shirt before heading out of her room.

Harper trudges downstairs to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge door only to be greeted by the sad sight of two rotting takeout containers. As if on cue, a lone gnat buzzes out of one. The kitchen is just as depressing as she remembers. Faded yellow wallpaper peels at the edges, stained with years of cigarette smoke and God knows what else. The grout between the linoleum tiles is as brown as dirt, and the sink is overflowing with dirty dishes. Harper can’t recall a single time Aunt Trudy cooked for her—or even for herself. Old habits never die, she guesses.

With a sigh, she shoves in her earbuds, cranks up Deftones, and gets to work cleaning out the fridge. Afterward, she heads down to the bodega down the street, picking up milk, eggs, bread, and a pack of Winston Blues before making her way back. 

She’s in the middle of cooking when Trudy stumbles down the stairs, rubbing her face. Harper barely glances up—until she notices the fresh bruise forming on her aunt’s left cheek, one she hadn’t seen the night before. 

She doesn’t say anything.

“I made you breakfast,” Harper says, sliding a plate of scrambled eggs and toast onto the kitchen counter. 

Trudy nods and grunts in response. Harper learned a long time ago that her aunt’s version of manners consists mostly of grunts and head tilts, and that particular one means thank you.

“I got my first shift at the Grill today. I won’t be home ‘til late,” Harper says, reaching for a cigarette before thinking better of it. She doesn’t want to smell like smoke on her first day, so she pulls out her spearmint vape from her pocket instead.

Trudy chuckles before taking a bite into her eggs “Oh yeah? Who’s dick did you have to suck for that gig?” She snorts at her own joke, clearly more amused than Harper is. 

“Real’ funny,” Harper mutters. “We need coffee. And ketchup. I mean seriously—who the hell doesn’t even have ketchup in their fridge?” She grabs her smokes and keys before heading for the door. Just as she’s about to close it, she pokes her head back in. “And for fuck’s sake, pay the damn bills. The heating’s off. I left money on the counter.” And with that, she heads out to her car.  

Harper slides into the driver’s seat, turns the key, and the engine sputters like it’s coughing up its last breath before finally roaring to life. She adjusts her rearview mirror, which is held together by a small army of duct tape, and backs out of her driveway, heading toward the Grill. She makes it 3 miles before the engine starts sputtering again, choking before it gives up completely, rolling to a stop on the side of the road. 

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” she mutters, slapping the steering wheel. “Not now, baby, momma needs you” she begs, twisting the key in the ignition—and…nothing. She tries again, pumping the gas, but all she gets is a sad whine from under the hood. The old piece of junk finally gave out on her. She’d bought it secondhand from one of Mickey’s friends when she left home. The ‘98 Corolla was bound to die eventually—she just thought it had at least another year in it. 

Harper leans her head against the headrest, inhaling deeply through her nose. She grabs her phone, dialing for a tow truck. Once the call is made, she tosses the phone onto the passenger seat and takes a long hit from her vape, trying to keep her cool before she completely loses it. While waiting, she tries calling Jackie again. Straight to voicemail. No surprise there. Jackie hasn’t returned a single one of the twenty-nine calls Harper’s left since that damn text. Son of a bitch. 

The Gods aren’t entirely against her today—the tow truck shows up in under thirty minutes and hauls her car off. Checking the time, Harper sees she’s got twenty-five minutes until her shift, and it’s about a thirty-minute walk to the Grill. Letting out a sigh, she adjusts her bag, picks up the pace, and sets off on foot.

—

Damon is nursing his bourbon at the bar, half-listening to Alaric’s rambling about his new love interest, Meredith Fell, when the door swings open. He doesn’t pay much attention at first—people come and go from the Grill all the time—but something about the way this one stumbles in catches his eye. 

The graveyard girl. Harper Bradshaw. 

She’s panting, flushed, looking like she just walked through hell and back. Strands of hair stick to her damp forehead, her black t-shirt clinging to her curves. She makes a beeline for Matt who’s clearing a table nearby. Bracing her hands on her knees, she hunches over like she might collapse on the spot. Damon smirks. Well, that’s interesting. He leans back against the bar, taking another sip of his drink, and tunes in to whatever disaster of a conversation is about to unfold.

“Matt, I’m so sorry I'm late,” Harper blurts the second she reaches him, words tumbling out between staggered breaths. “My car broke down—just completely gave up on me—which, in hindsight, I totally should’ve seen coming, like a mile away…literally. Then Jackie being MIA started to piss me off, so I tried to light a cigarette but then I was like, no, dumbass, you’ll stink on your first day, so I didn’t, but then I had to walk two miles here, which I basically ran, and—”

“Harp.” Matt cuts in before she can spiral any further. “It’s fine. You’re only five minutes late.” He gives her an easy smile, shaking his head. “Take a breath. Let me show you around.”

“Damon, are you even listening?” Alaric shakes his shoulder, snapping him out of his vampire hearing. 

Damon turns his attention back to Alaric, dropping his voice into a mocking impression. “Meredith is so hot. I’d totally date her—if it wasn’t for the whole ‘living in my dead girlfriend’s house’ thing.” He smirks before switching back to his normal tone. “Meredith’s weird anyway. Don’t bang her.” 

“Dude. Not cool.” Alaric shoots Damon a pointed look. “Meredith isn’t weird. And since when are you the authority on weird relationships? You’re going for your brother’s girlfriend.”

Just to Damon’s luck, Harper walks behind the bar, cinching an apron over her waist. She scoffs. “Wow. Now that’s a new one.” 

Damon downs his drink and slides it toward her. “Bourbon, neat.” He’s clearly not a fan of the accusatory look she’s giving him now that she knows about his love life. 

Alaric, ever the peacekeeper, thinks it’s a great idea to keep the conversation going. “Trust me, that’s the most normal thing you’ll see around here.”

Harper laughs. A real laugh. “Don’t I know it.” 

Harper pours him his drink, and Damon sulks, the sting of Alaric’s offhand comment still lingering. Elena wasn’t technically still with Stefan, right? His humanity was turned off, and he’d made more than clear that he had no intention of coming back to her.

“You must be new,” Alaric reaches his hand over the bar to Harper. She takes it, hesitating a moment before she gives him a firm shake. “I’m Alaric Saltzman, I teach history at Mystic Falls High. My buddy sulking over here is Damon. Damon Salvatore.”

Damon offers a smile that’s more like a sneer, extending his hand toward her, fully aware it’ll make her uncomfortable. “We met yesterday, at the funeral.” 

Harper raises an eyebrow and shrugs, not missing a beat. “Hmm, nope. I don’t reckon we did.” She turns her attention back to Alaric, offering him a polite smile. “I’m Harper, and no, not new. Returning.”

Without another word, Harper scurries off to the other end of the bar, leaving Damon to note the way she carefully avoided saying her last name.

Alaric follows his gaze, brow furrowing. “Dude, why are you looking at her like that?”

Damon doesn’t look away. “She’s a Bradshaw.”  

Alaric scoffs. “Like the founding family, Bradshaw?” 

“Bingo,” Damon swirls the whiskey in his glass. “Daddy dearest isn’t the actual father, though. According to Blondie.”

“Well, that would explain why she doesn’t look like one,” Alaric says, clearly recalling the Bradshaws from the last Founders’ meeting. Blond hair, pale skin, and light eyes are practically a family trademark—nothing like Harper, with her darker coloring and sharper features. The only trace of her mother in her is the hazel eyes. 

The Bradshaws had always carried themselves with an air of superiority—fancy parties, old money, and an obsession with appearances. Neil Bradshaw is one of Virginia’s most successful attorneys, following in the footsteps of his father before him. Damon remembers the Bradshaws from 1864—staunch vampire hunters. While the Gilberts and Forbes took center stage in the hunt, the Bradshaws worked behind the scenes, funding weapons, vervain distribution, and even hiring bounty hunters. When Stefan turned, and his humanity switched off, he wiped out their supply chain without a second thought. 

Lily Bradshaw wasn’t anything special either. Blonde, lightly tanned, and Southern to the bone, she had a quiet presence in Mystic Falls. As Neil’s secretary, she also assisted Mayor Lockwood with Founder’s meetings and parties. Polite but reserved, she never spoke to Damon unless spoken to first. 

“What does it matter, anyways?” Alaric asks, unfazed by this new information. 

Damon pulls himself back, reminding himself—again—that there’s no reason for him to care. “It doesn’t,” he says, just as Elena steps into view.

“We need to talk,” Elena’s voice is firm, her gaze locked onto Damon. “About Mikael.” 

Damon doesn’t miss a beat. “Not happening.” 

“I’m coming to Charlotte with you.” She doesn’t waver. 

Damon scoffs. “No, you’re not,” His tone sharper this time. “You can’t go anywhere without bad-boy Stefan trailing you. So unless you have some grand master plan to-” 

“Bonnie and I trapped him in the cellar.” Elena cuts him off before he can finish.

Damon grabs her by the arm, stepping into her space. “You what ?” His glare is sharp, but he quickly lets go when he catches Harper, across the bar, watching him skeptically. He lowers his voice. “Why the hell would you put yourself at risk like that? Are you stupid?” 

Elena shoves him off. “Bonnie was with me,” She snaps, exasperated. “She used her magic to get him down, then I injected him with vervain. We dragged him to the cellar, and we’re going to starve him. Just like Lexi said.” 

Damon exhales sharply, his jaw clenching in frustration. “This might be the dumbest thing you’ve ever done, and that’s saying something. We don’t even know who this Mikael guy is.”

Elena steps closer, her eyes searching his, that same stubborn determination written all over her face. “I’m not letting you go alone. It’s too dangerous. So… are you done lecturing me?”

Damon huffs a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Not even close. But I’m done with my drink, so I guess it’ll have to wait.” He gestures to Harper for a refill, then turns to Alaric. “You’ll keep an eye on Stefan?”

Alaric nods, pulling out his buzzing phone. “Yeah, I got it covered.” He glances at the screen, then mutters. “Shit, I’m late—Meredith. Gotta go.”

Damon mutters a curse under his breath before finally looking back at Elana. “Fine. Pack a bag, princess. We leave for Charlotte tomorrow. But if you slow me down, I’m dumping you on the side of the road.” 

Elena smirks, victorious. “Wouldn’t be the first time you tried.” She’s already walking away when she throws over her shoulder, “See you tomorrow.” 

Damon rolls his eyes at her retreating figure, then catches Harper furrowing her brows as she pours his drink. He exhales sharply. “Spill it. You look like you’ll explode if you don’t say something.”

Harper waves her hands quickly. “Oh, it’s nothing. Nothing at all. Carry on.” She immediately busies herself, wiping at a nonexistent speck of dust on the bar top like her life depends on it.

“Harper. I’m not in the mood for games,” Damon warns, his patience wearing thin.

Harper’s face scrunches like she’s physically holding back words, her fingers tightening around the rag in her hand. Her complexion pales, then— “Take me to Charlotte with you!” she blurts, as if she physically can’t stop herself.

Damon leans back on his stool, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, well. Mystery girl isn’t only extremely rude, she’s also an eavesdropper.” He leans in closer, flashing his award-winning smile. “Tell me, Harper, do you usually listen in on people’s conversations, or did I catch your eye?” 

Harper scoffs. “Come on, it’s in the bartender job description.” She meets his gaze, completely sincere. “Just hitch me a ride. Please?”

Damon stares at her for a moment, finding it harder than he’d like to simply brush her off. “I could be a killer. I could lock you in my trunk and ship you off to Peru.” 

Harper waves him off with a dismissive flick of her hand. “You’re taking Elena with you, and you’re ‘buds’ with the high school history teacher. I think I’ll be fine.” She shrugs nonchalantly. “Plus, I’ve been in way worse situations.” 

Damon’s brow furrows as he studies her, realizing he’s not going to scare her off. “Why do you even want to go? It’s Charlotte, not New York.” 

Harper hesitates for a moment, then shrugs. “I got some friends there I need to catch up with, and my car broke down today.” She sighs dramatically. “I’ll be out of your hair. I won’t say a word.” She mockingly zips her lips, then grins devilishly. “You can have Elena all to yourself and win her over.” 

Damon stares blankly. And she was just starting to look cute, he thinks. “You catch on quick.” He can’t seem to ignore the way those hazel eyes are practically begging him to take her with him. “What’s in it for me?”

Harper shoots up, hope lighting her eyes. “I’ll pay you. Name your price.” 

Damon gives her a flat look. “Does it look like I need money?” 

Harper’s expression shifts slightly, a flicker of annoyance crossing her face. She shrugs, trying to mask it. “Of course you don’t. Then what do you want?”  

Damon pauses, scanning the now-empty bar as he considers his answer. What does he want? He could ask for sex, but he knows that would be a hard no—she’s shown zero interest in him, which is surprising enough. Then, of course, his thoughts shift to Elena. He wants her, he always does. “Help me ‘win Elena over’,” he says, making air quotes with his fingers. “Make her jealous for me.” 

An awkward silence settles between them before Harper bursts out laughing. She snorts, seemingly unable to control herself. “What, are you ten?” She’s wiping away the tears now streaming down her face. 

Harper has her head in her hands, trying to contain her laughter when Damon’s jaw tightens. “More like ten decades,” he mutters, barely above a whisper.

Harper finally looks up, taking a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, I’m sorry.” She wipes under her eyes one last time. “It’s just-” she looks around the room, then back at Damon. “That shit doesn’t work. Getting her jealous won’t make her like you.”

Damon sighs, exasperated. “I’ve had much more experience with women than you.” When Harper raises a brow, clearly unconvinced, he adds, “Fine. Let’s make a bet. If she shows even the slightest hint of jealousy, you owe me free drinks for a whole day.” 

He watches her carefully, knowing that’s a big ask. She’d either have to pay for it herself or slip it under her manager’s nose. And judging by how she reacted to his earlier comment about money, it doesn’t seem like she’d want to do either.

Harper squints, clearly weighing her options. “Fine,” she finally says, her tone a mix of resolve and challenge. “But if she doesn't get jealous, you have to pay to fix my car.” 

She extends her hand, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Deal?”

Damon takes her hand with a firm grip, his smirk matching hers. “Deal.”

Damon watches her finish cleaning up, the sound of the last glasses being put away filling the silence between them. As they head out of the Grill together, they exchange goodbyes and their phone numbers. Damon’s eyes linger a moment longer than necessary before he watches her walk off into the night, disappearing into the distance.

Notes:

Side note: I don't even know if it gets that cold in Virginia. I'm not even American so if it's unrealistic that Harper woke up cold in her house then idk pretend I didn't write it. Also, Harper is supposed to be 20, but I kinda realized after that the drinking age in the States is 21 lol (do you have to wait until 21 to buy cigarettes? lmao ok sorry). Chapter 3 is already in the works so expect that to be up soon!

-Bunzie<3

Chapter 3: The Break

Summary:

Harper joins Damon and Elena on their road trip to Charlotte, only to arrive at Tess’s house to find everything falling apart. Betrayal lingers in the air, and the crew has scattered. Harper gets a much-needed makeover, ready to complete her end of the deal.

Notes:

Hey y'all! This chapter is pretty long, but funny enough it was supposed to be even longer. I decided last minute to cut the chapter in two cause it had a good place to end, and the next part is pretty intense. So look out for chapter 4!

Enjoy!

Harper slows to a stop at the edge of the Salvatore estate, tipping her head back to take in the massive, gaudy mansion before her. “Jesus,” she mutters under her breath, hands on her hips. “Must be nice.” She had walked three miles to get here, cutting through the woods just as the morning sun began to filter through the thinning autumn leaves. The walk reminded her of high school mornings, when she spent most of her time sneaking cigarettes on back roads and skipping first period with Vicki. By the time she reached the estate, her legs ached slightly, but the walk had woken her up. Determination settled in, pushing aside any lingering exhaustion. 

She bounces up the steps to the house, hand hovering over the door before knocking. She knew Damon had money—he’d practically shoved it in her face yesterday, speaking so casually about it that it left a bad taste in her mouth. But standing here now, staring up at this massive wooden door, she realized just how much she underestimated him. This wasn’t just money. This was old money, ancient money. The kind of wealth that had been passed down through generations. The place was huge, far too big for just him and his brother to occupy, and despite herself, she felt a twinge of envy. The brick exterior of the house gleamed in the morning light, its mahogany pillars standing tall and imposing. Aunt Trudy hadn’t laid down many rules when Harper was growing up, but there was one she always made sure to emphasize: never egg houses with brick exteriors. Those were the rich ones.

Harper straightens when Damon opens the door, dressed in black jeans, a navy blue v-neck, and the same leather jacket from last night. He gestures for her to come in, and she steps inside, her eyes immediately drawn to the garish chandelier overhead and the plush velvet cushions covering the sofas. High ceilings stretch above, with red carpet and matching drapes covering the windows. A bar cart holds a whiskey collection so vast, Harper wonders if anyone could ever finish it in a lifetime. 

“Where do you work?” she asks, her gaze still sweeping the room, wide-eyed. 

“So you sign up for a road trip with a stranger, but only after agreeing do you decide to do a background check?” Damon teases, his tone playful.

Harper can tell he’s in a better mood than the sulking mess he was yesterday, so she decides to keep things light, rolling her eyes with a playful grin. “When I get in a taxi, do I need to know everything about the driver? No, I just let him take me where I need to go.” She notices the way he dodges the question, and figures it's best not to push. Probably a nepo-child , she thinks to herself. “So, where’s our target?”

“We’re picking her up on the way.” Damon says, his fingers tapping away at his phone, likely sending a message to Elena.

Damon had gone over the plan on the phone while Harper was eating breakfast. The plan seemed simple enough, but it was clear Damon had more faith in her acting abilities than she did herself. Damon is to bring Elena to a bar after they take care of whatever they need to do—find a guy named Mikael or whatever—and then Harper would join them and start flirting with Damon. She hadn’t paid much attention to their conversation the night before; she’d been too focused on customers to catch all the details. All she really gathered was that they were after some guy named Mikael. The plan sounded simple—aside from the fact that Harper was terrible at flirting, and even worse at holding conversations. Aside from her complete lack of confidence in her "temptress" abilities, Harper also couldn’t fathom Elena, of all people, ever feeling jealous of her. There wasn’t much to be jealous of, after all. Elena had two brothers falling over themselves for her, so the chances of her feeling threatened by her were slim to none.

Damon pockets his phone and finally gives Harper a once-over. “You don’t really look the part to be ‘smokin’ hot competition’ for Elena.” He raises an eyebrow, gesturing to her less than presentable outfit. Boot-cut, dark-wash jeans, a black zip-up hoodie with a skull graphic, and her worn-out high-top Converse, the same pair she’s had since freshman year.

“It’s all I have right now. The rest of my stuff’s in Charlotte.” Harper glances down at her shoes, irritation flashing across her face from his comment. “Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

“You better pull through. I’m not accepting some half-assed attempt at seducing me.” Damon smirks devilishly, leaning in close enough to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Harper swats his hand away, disgust flashing across her face. “I don’t ‘half-ass’ anything. Let’s just go before it gets too late.” 

Damon grabs his keys, locking the door behind him, and heads toward his car, Harper in tow. She climbs into the front seat, surprised by how spotless the interior is. His car is the polar opposite of hers—everything intact, no duct tape holding anything together, no lingering smell of cigarettes, and certainly no missing headrests. She feels out of place for a moment, the reality of the situation sinking in. She probably looks like a stray dog, begging for a ride. She pushes those thoughts aside, locking them away deep down. Not now, she tells herself.

Silence fills the air on the drive to the Gilbert's house, so Harper decides to pull out her phone, checking for any updates from Jackie. There’s nothing, unsurprisingly, but the brief sting of disappointment flashes across her face. She promised she’d call. Great. Now she really felt like a stray dog. Instead, Harper taps out a message to Tess, letting her know she’s on her way. Last night, before bed, Harper had called Tess to ask if she could swing by to talk about what had happened with her group of friends. After a little back-and-forth, Tess finally agreed, but only under the condition that Harper didn’t start any shit. 

When they pull up to the Gilberts’ house, Harper hops out and slides into the backseat, watching through the rear window while Damon waits at Elena’s front door. She can’t hear their conversation, but she catches the playful, teasing banter between them. Harper tries to gauge Elena’s attitude before she gets in the car, trying to gather as much information as possible before her performance tonight. It’s hard to tell if Elena is enjoying Damon’s teasing, her furrowed brows and pursed lips giving little away. But if she were truly not interested in Damon, why would she even bother going on this trip with him? 

Elena slides into the front seat, ready to toss her purse in the back, but jumps when she sees Harper in the backseat, smiling at her. 

“Hi, Elena.” 

Still visibly shocked, Elena whips around to Damon. “Damon! What is she doing here?”

Elena's face twists in pure confusion before she turns back to Harper. “I’m sorry, you just startled me. It's nice to see you, Harper. It's been a while.” She smiles, and after a beat, Harper offers a hesitant smile in return. 

Damon shrugs, smirking. “Oops. Guess I forgot to mention little miss Bradshaw is tagging along.” 

Harper stiffens. “You know I’m a Bradshaw?” She snaps. 

Damon’s grin widens. “You might not have done a background check, but I sure did.”

Harper guesses it was naive to think no one would remember her by now—she’d only been gone two years. Does no one have anything better to do but gossip in this shithole? 

Damon leans back against the seat, starting up the car. “Relax, I didn’t hire a private investigator. It’s a small town, people talk.”

Harper exhales sharply and leans back. There’s no point in getting pissed, he would’ve found out one way or another. “Yeah, whatever,” She mutters.  

Once on the road, Damon can’t help himself, throwing snarky comments back and forth with Elena about Stefan—his brother, apparently. Harper feels like a third wheel, her thoughts swirling as the landscape outside the window blurs by. She tries to focus on the passing trees, the occasional farmhouse, but her mind keeps returning to the awkward situation she’s in.

Then, out of nowhere, Damon pulls out an old journal, its leather cover worn and aged. Harper glances at it, her curiosity piqued despite herself.

Damon flashes his cocky smile. “Look what I stole.” 

Elena tries to grab it from his hand, but Damon swats her hand away with ease. “Damon, don’t read that.”

“Ah, look, here’s one.” Damon flips the journal open to an entry, reading with dramatic flair. “I’ve blacked-out days. I wake up in strangers’ blood in places I don’t recognize, with women I don’t remember.” 

Blacked-out days? Wakes up in blood? How could Elena be with someone like this? Harper’s mind races—she’s seen people like this before, with strange kinks and fixations. She tries to look away from the journal in Damon’s hands, but it’s hard not to when uncomfortable memories of Aunt Trudy’s customers pop up. 

Damon continues, ignoring the warning in Elena’s eyes. “Ah, I’m shocked! Stefan’s not a virgin?” 

Harper chuckles in the back. Damon’s joke caught her off guard, pushing her dark thoughts aside. She stops laughing when she notices both pairs of eyes staring at her. Feeling awkward, she clears her throat and says, “Sounds like Stefan has some baggage.” 

After a beat, Damon shrugs. “He’s got a bit of a drinking problem.” 

Elena rolls her eyes. “Eyes on the road, grandma.”

Damon smirks but doesn’t take his eyes off the road. Elena goes quiet for a minute, staring out the window before turning back to him, her voice soft but firm. “And Stefan was handling his ‘drinking problem’ just fine before you and Rebekah forced a drink on him.”

Damon lets out a frustrated sigh. “Look, I thought it would help him gain some control.”

When Elena doesn’t respond, Damon glances at Harper through the rearview mirror, giving her a ‘come on’ face, like he’s hoping for some backup. 

Harper shrugs, unsure of what to say, and turns back to the window. She’s not about to pick a side in whatever Damon and Elena are arguing about, especially when she has no clue what’s really going on. 

Damon sighs and flips on the radio, cycling through stations. Static, talk shows, and snippets of music fill the silence until— 

“Wait, don’t change it,” Harper says, suddenly leaning over the console. “Ah, I love this song.” She reaches out, turning up the volume before settling back in her seat, a small smile tugging at her lips. Southern Nights by Glen Campbell drifts through the speakers, wrapping around her like a warm breeze. 

“I never took you to be a Glen Campbell fan. Thought you were strictly a Radiohead kinda girl.” Damon teases, smirking. 

Harper can’t tell if he’s actually interested or just trying to nudge their deal into action, so she keeps her response neutral. “It’s my mom’s favourite song. Holds a special place in my heart.” She smiles, tilting her head back as the memories resurface. 

She’s back in her childhood kitchen, the windows open, Glen Campbell crooning through the radio, the scent of Mom’s lemon verbena soap filling the air. Mom scrubs the counters, humming along, before glancing up with a grin. “You look like you wanna dance,” she says, her Southern accent sweet as honey. “Mommm, this is embarrassing.” But Harper is already laughing as her mother boogies over, grabs her hands, and spins her into a clumsy two-step across the wet tiles. Their laughter and singing echo through the kitchen—until Dad walks in.

“Harper?” Damon's voice snaps her out of her thoughts. 

Both Damon and Elena are looking at Harper expectantly, like they’re waiting for her to say more about her mom. Embarrassment tightens in her throat—she should’ve just kept quiet. Her fingers twitch, but she forces them still. “Whatever,” she mutters, voice cooling. “Change the station if you want. It doesn’t matter.”

Despite Harper’s abrupt coldness, no one changes the station. The rest of the ride unfolds in silence, Country Classics humming softly through the speakers. An hour later, they pull into Charlotte, stopping near a bustling market in the heart of town. Harper steps out, stretching her legs, then pulls out her phone to text Tess: Be there soon. 

The scent of cologne hits her nose first, and then, without warning, Damon leans over her shoulder, peering at her phone. Harper yelps, startled, and quickly jerks away from him.

“Meet us here at 9.” Damon’s smirk fades, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of genuine concern in his eyes. “You sure you’re good to get to your friend’s?” 

Harper quickly glances at Elena, catching the calculating gaze on her face as she watches the interaction. “I’ll be fine. Just go.” 

Damon hesitates for a moment longer, his act convincing. Finally, he nods, stepping back. “Alright, if you say so. But text me when you get there.” His smolder returns, replacing the care in his eyes like it was never there. He adds, quieter now, “Can’t have you ruining my plan tonight—I’ve got a bet to win.”

Harper winks at Damon. “I think I’m going to go buy a bottle of champagne in preparation for my win tonight.” She turns on her heel, heading in the direction of Tess’s house.

Harper walks down the bustling street, her steps quick and purposeful, the cool afternoon air biting at her skin. The streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement as she spots Tess’s house a few blocks away. Tess, in her mid thirties, was tough but kind, her heart as worn and weathered as the old house she called home. It had belonged to her grandparents—left to her after they passed—and she’d been holding it together ever since. It wasn’t much. The walls were chipped, the furniture mismatched, and family photos littered the walls, but it was cozy. Tess made sure of that.  

When Harper and her gang showed up exhausted and hungry at the local diner where Tess worked, they immediately became friends. She took them in without a second thought, letting them crash at her place for however long they needed. It wasn’t about charity; Tess just didn’t want to be alone anymore. Everyone knew the crew was taking advantage of that, but none of them said anything. In their world, survival meant taking whatever scraps they could get.

Harper walks up the rickety steps to the front door and rings the doorbell. Her mind drifts back to the conversation with Damon—to his proximity, the way his chest pressed against her back. When’s the last time she got laid, anyway? She shakes the thought off, refocusing on the task at hand—finding out where her friends were, and what the hell happened while she was away.

Tess opens the door, glancing left and right before ushering Harper inside. “You’re actually here,” she says, sounding more surprised than she meant to. She gestures toward the kitchen. “Let’s have a drink.” 

Harper and the crew had been living there for about three months before she left for Vicki’s funeral, so when she steps inside, it’s familiar. Without needing to ask, she heads straight to the liquor cabinet and pulls out a bottle of gin. Tess grabs two club sodas from the fridge.

“How’s it going?” Harper asks, eyeing the room. “The place looks nice. Clean.” 

Tess pours them both a gin and tonic. “You guys left it a mess.” 

“Yeah, about that…” Harper starts, but Tess cuts her off. 

“Let’s go out back for a smoke.” 

Tess never let anyone smoke inside. In-the-house rules were different from out-the-house rules. Always had been. They settle at the warped picnic table Mickey and Deek stole from a nearby park and dragged into Tess’s backyard. Tess lights a cigarette and tosses the pack to Harper, who catches it and eagerly takes one out.

“So,” Tess says, exhaling a plume of smoke. “What did Jackie tell you?”

“Not much,” Harper replies. “Said Mickey broke house rules, brought coke in. That he’d been dealing it on the street.” 

Tess scoffs, shaking her head. “That’s the excuse she gave you? Seriously? You actually believe that?”

Harper narrows her eyes. “What’re you talking about?” 

“Come on, Harp. I knew you guys were breaking my rules—bringing in shit, dealing behind my back.” Tess rolls her eyes, taking another drag. “I’m not naive.”

Harper’s brows furrow, anger and confusion creeping in. “Then what happened, Tess? Why the hell isn’t Jackie answering my calls?” 

Tess looks at her, pity lining her face. “She stole our cash. All of it. Even my grandma’s jewelry. Took everything and bailed—with Mitch.”

Harper freezes. “No. Jackie wouldn’t do that. She cared about you guys. She wouldn’t just... leave us. She wouldn’t leave me.” She says it like a prayer, like if she repeats it enough, it’ll become true.

Harper had been drifting ever since she left Aunt Trudy’s house. No direction. No clue what came next. She met Jackie just outside Virginia Beach, drunk at some dive bar and trying to drown the ache of being completely alone. Jackie, with her wild spark and chaotic charm, felt like a lifeboat. Harper clung to her like a lost puppy, desperate for something steady—anything. Jackie had introduced her to the crew not long after: Mickey, Deek, and Switch. 

Mickey was the rat—scrawny, red-haired, freckled, and always squirming his way into trouble. No one knew how he ended up in the crew. Every story he told contradicted the last.

Deek was muscle and mystery. Towering, buff, tribal ink wrapping his dark arms. Intimidating as hell, but protective. He didn’t talk about his past. No one asked.

Then there was Switch. Switch was... unpredictable. Asian, tall, buzzed head, covered in piercings and tattoos, and never talked. No one knew their real name. The nickname came easy—“Switch,” because you never knew what version of them you were gonna get. “They’re real jumpy,” Mickey once told Harper. “Like, flipping the light switch. Calm one second, swinging the next. Hence, Switch.” 

Tess takes another drag and sighs. “She abandoned you, dipshit. Told you some half-ass lie so you wouldn’t come after her.”

Harper’s throat tightens. She looks around the backyard, heart pounding. The panic hits quick—cold and sharp. She’s alone again. Officially. No Jackie. No crew. No anchor. 

“I think Mitch’s been feeding her bullshit,” Tess continues, the bitterness evident in her voice. “Said he’s got connections. Could get her a job, make her famous. She fell right for it, and when he said he needed money, she got him money.” 

“Fucking Mitch,” Harper mutters, dragging hard on her cigarette.

“Fucking Mitch,” Tess echoes, lighting another.

Mitch had always been a sleazebag. Slicked-back black hair, knockoff Versace shades, silk shirts, and enough cologne to choke a skunk. No one liked him. But Jackie saw something in him—God knows what. He’d been tagging along for weeks, always lurking. Every time Harper raised a red flag, Jackie brushed her off.

“You’re being clingy,” or, “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you,” she’d say.

Harper’s jaw tightens, her stomach sinking. It made sense—Jackie had always been one to chase after dreams, no matter how unrealistic, and Mitch had played on that. She stands abruptly, fists clenched, pacing like she’s about to punch through a wall.

“Cool it, firecracker. Not on my property.” 

Harper exhales, jaw tight, and forces herself back down onto the bench.

“You think she’s really in Boston?” Harper asks, her voice low.

“I don’t know,” Tess says. “But you’re not gonna see her again, kid. You’re gonna go back home, forget about Jackie, forget about any of them. I don’t want you ending up in whatever mess she got herself into.” 

Harper’s mind races, questions spiraling faster than she can keep up with. “Where’s everyone else?”

“I don’t know.” Tess replies, her tone flat. “And I don’t care. Their cash was stolen too, and I kicked them out.” 

Harper exhales sharply, the weight of the truth sinking in. They’ve gotta be pissed. Jackie had been the glue that kept them all together, the one person they could always count on, or at least, that’s how it felt. Without her, everything’s falling apart. 

Tess stubs out her cigarette in the ashtray and picks up their empty glasses. “You’re better off without them, kid,” she says, disappearing back inside. 

Harper stays seated a moment longer, watching the sun dip low behind the chipped fence. "She always wanted more, didn’t she?" she mutters, the bitterness curling in her chest. Eventually, she pulls out her phone and checks the time. A few hours left before she has to meet up with Damon and Elena. The plan feels small now—stupid, even—but she can’t leave Mystic Falls without a working car, and she’s counting on this bet. So she gets up and trudges back inside.

Tess is at the sink, rinsing the glasses. Harper leans against the doorway. “I need your help with something,” she says. 

Tess glances over her shoulder. “Enlighten me,” she replies, brushing her curls out of her eyes with the back of her hand.

Harper shifts her weight, suddenly a little sheepish. “I need to borrow some clothes. I’ve got a date tonight.”

Tess turns off the faucet and grabs a towel, one brow arched. “Since when do you date?”

Harper shrugs. “The guy that brought me here asked me on a date. It’s not that deep—I just need to not look like my entire life imploded today.”

Tess stares at her for a beat, then lets out a laugh. “Alright, drama queen, let’s see what I can do.” 

An hour later, Harper descends the stairs transformed. Her hair is swept up into a messy up-do, loose strands framing her face with effortless precision. Dark liner wings out from the corners of her eyes, making them sharper, and a deep berry gloss stains her lips. She’s wearing a black mini skirt over lace tights, leather boots that add an extra inch to her height, and a matching leather jacket thrown over a boat-neck maroon shirt that slips off one shoulder. When she reaches the bottom of the stairs, she pauses in front of the mirror hanging in the narrow hallway. She stares for a moment, as if trying to recognize the girl staring back.

“I gotta admit, you’ve got great taste,” Harper says, tilting her head side to side in the mirror. It’s hard to believe the woman staring back at her is actually her. “Thank you. I owe you one.”

Tess winks. “I take cash or credit.” 

Harper cracks a smile, then pulls Tess into a hug. Tess hugs her tighter.

“Keep saving for college. And I meant what I said earlier.” Tess pulls back just enough to raise an eyebrow. “You’re better off without them.”

Harper nods, her voice quieter. “For what it’s worth... I’m sorry. We never should’ve stayed here that long.”

Tess shrugs. “I knew what I was getting into. I just... needed to feel young again. Rebellious. Reckless.”

“You are young,” Harper says, smiling.

“I know.” Tess’s voice softens. “I just needed the reminder.”

A silence settles between them—understanding, bittersweet.

“I think I’m gonna sell the place,” Tess says, glancing around. “This house... it was never really mine to begin with. Might head down to Florida. Maybe get a cat.”

“That sounds perfect.” Harper smiles. “Send me a postcard?”

“You got it.”

Harper heads toward the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. “And Tess? Thank you. For everything.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tess waves her off. “Now get going before you’re late. And keep that temper in check!” 

Harper laughs. “No promises.”

She steps out into the fading light, the door closing gently behind her as she heads back toward the market—looking like hell on heels, and feeling just a little less alone.

Notes:

Thanks to everyone who's been reading and following the story so far! It's actually really motivating seeing the numbers gradually go up. I hope you liked the deep dive into Harper's past! I'm still trying to keep it a bit of a mystery, but I'm trying to throw hints in there that'll make sense later. ALSO. I take slow burns verrrrry seriously, so when I say slow, I mean slow. Ok that's enough rambling.

Thanks for reading
-Bunzie<3

Chapter 4: Jackass

Summary:

Harper ends up in the market where Damon is waiting for her, before something unexpected comes in her way, leaving Damon to her rescue.

Notes:

Hey guys! Chapter 4 is finally out. Somehow the chapters keep getting longer and longer, but I really liked how this one turned out. It's very fast paced, and has lots of action! If you couldn't already tell, I took the "Bradshaw" name from the Vampire Diaries books (a little homage to L. J. Smith, who recently passed away in March). I'm not following any storyline of the Bradshaws from the books, other than the fact that they are a founding family. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

Cheers!

The market in Charlotte was different at night. What had once been sun-bleached and sleepy was now buzzing with life—string lights zigzagged above the narrow streets like lazy constellations, casting a warm, golden haze over the pubs and shops still open for business. Neon signs buzzed from bars tucked between antique stores and tattoo parlors, their colors flickering across the faces of passersby. Music poured out in bursts—house, rock, old soul—there was a place for everyone here. 

Harper walks with her hands in her pockets, boots scuffing the uneven pavement as she weaves through the crowd. She steps around a man who’d just been kicked out of a club and was now dry heaving on the curb. She’d been through this market more times than she could count—the streets were like a map etched into the back of her hand. She knew where she was going: the bar Damon mentioned was just two blocks away, across the street if she cut through the alley next to the bodega with the green awning. 

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She pulls it out and sees Damon’s name light up the screen. 

Damon: We’re here. Where are you?

Harper begins to type back, thumb hovering above the screen, when something slams into her gut like a freight train. The wind rushes from her lungs in a sickening whoof , and her phone clatters to the concrete, the screen going dark as it slides under a dumpster.

“What the f—” she chokes out, stumbling back, only for a fist to crack across her jaw and send her reeling into the alley wall. Her skull smacks against the brick, a dull thud ringing in her ears before she turns toward her attacker, shielding her head with her forearms. She blinks hard, the fairy lights above blurring into streaks of color. Shapes close in around her.

Another blow comes from the left—she dodges on instinct, then drives her fist into someone’s jaw, bone crunching beneath her knuckles. 

“Fuck!” Mickey’s voice rings out, sharp and familiar. 

Harper’s vision finally clears, just in time to see him stumbling back, clutching his jaw. She barely has a second to react before a heavy force slams her against the wall again—Deek. His massive forearm presses hard against her neck, pinning her like a rag doll.

“Hey, guys,” Harper wheezes, her throat tight as she claws at Deek’s arm. “Long time, no see.” 

Deek looms over her, his massive form blocking the meager light from the street. His arm was still pressed tight against her throat, but his expression was something she hadn't expected—pleading, almost regretful.

Switch sat on a nearby dumpster, arms crossed, a cigarette dangling between their fingers. They take a long drag, their eyes flicking between Harper and the dark stretch of the alley, like they were waiting for something—or someone—to show up.

“Where’ve you been, Harp?” Mickey growls, regaining his balance and stepping forward, his eyes narrowing. “Still chasing Jackie like a dog in heat?” 

Harper glares up at Deek, trying to ignore the ache in her ribs and the burning in her throat. She manages a sharp exhale, barely able to get the words out. “If I’d known you guys were throwing me a welcome home party, I’d have come sooner,” she says sarcastically, wincing as Deek’s grip tightens.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Harp. We just wanna know where Jackie is,” Deek says, sadness creeping into his voice.

Harper laughs in disbelief. “You think I know? She left all of us, you dumb-fucks.” She can’t help but roll her eyes. “Man, I knew you three didn’t have the brains, but come on , you’d think one brain cell from each of you would band together and form a coherent thought-” 

She’s cut off by another punch to the face, sending blood gushing from her nose. 

“She took all our money, Harp!” Mickey’s voice trembles, “She always liked you the most, so don’t lie to me. Where did she go?” He’s yelling in her face now, spit flying from his mouth. He’s on something, based on his blown out pupils and jerky movements. 

“I told you, I don’t know!” Harper shouts back, locking eyes with Deek in a silent plea. 

Switch scoffs, giving Mickey an I told you so look while flicking their lighter open and closed.

Mickey sighs. “Fine, if you won’t break, we’ll move to plan B.” 

Harper’s head spins, black dots swimming in her vision as her airway tightens. Switch pockets their lighter, replacing it with a knife as they hop off the dumpster. Their eyes darken, stalking forward like a predator finding its prey.

“We know who you are, Harper,” Mickey says, his eyes wild. He laughs, manic and raw. “It didn’t take long to find out. I mean, if Jackie can’t save you, the Bradshaws surely will.” 

The laugh that escapes Harper’s lips is malicious. “So, what? You’re gonna ransom me now?” 

Switch, their expression cold and calculating, shrugs in response. 

Mickey steps closer, placing a hand on Harper’s hip while Deek keeps her pinned. “We’re just gonna roughen you up a bit. Show them we aren’t playing around, y’know?” His hand squeezes the fat on her hip. “We need money, that’s all. No hard feelings.”

Switch comes around the other side of Deek, their knife pressing into her shoulder. Blood flows down her arm; a hiss escaping her lips.

Her eyes flick to Deek, but he doesn’t meet her gaze. He’s the one she’d hoped would stop this, but the sad look in his eyes says it all. He’s not here to save her anymore.

Harper’s breath comes in shallow gasps, but she squares her shoulders, refusing to show them any more weakness. She isn’t going to break. Not now. Not like this. “You think they’ll save me? You don’t know shit,” she spits out, the blood trickling from her nose dripping onto the ground. “You’re just a bunch of deluded fools who can’t accept the fact that you’ve been abandoned. Again. ” 

She opens her mouth to curse them out, but Mickey grabs her face and slams her head back into the wall. A guttural wail escapes her throat as her vision fractures, black edging in at the corners. She’s slipping—losing grip on everything—when suddenly, the air rushes back into her lungs.

Deek’s arm is ripped away from her throat. The pressure vanishes, the blade in her shoulder disappears in a blink, and she collapses, slumping against the wall. Her vision flickers, fading in and out like a dying lightbulb, catching glimpses of the scene around her.

Mickey’s body lies crumpled on the ground, unmoving. Deek is on his knees, clutching his neck as blood pours through his fingers, thick and dark. And then there’s Switch—Switch, who’s always been silent, expressionless—now writhing on the ground, letting out a ragged, inhuman scream. It’s the first time Harper’s ever heard their voice, and it’s pure agony.

Through the haze, she sees only the silhouette of her savior. A tall figure, back turned to her, standing over the wreckage of what used to be her friends. And then her head hits the pavement, and everything goes black.

___

Damon sits at the bar beside Elena in a dingy old sports bar, the kind cluttered with faded jerseys and dusty trophies no one’s cared about in decades. He’s managed to convince her to order a drink—just one—after compelling the bartender not to ask for ID. She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

Their trip to Charlotte was a semi-success, if Damon was being generous. They had finally managed to wake Mikael after trying every type of blood imaginable. Only to find out—too late—that he only drank from the dead.

Damon had leaned down to check on him, and in a blink, Mikael had latched on, draining him dry. While he was recovering, pissed off and weak, Elena had relayed what Mikael muttered before vanishing: Niklaus.

It’s half past nine when Damon pulls out his phone and texts Harper:

Damon: We’re here. Where are you?

He watches the screen. Three little dots appear—typing—then disappear just as fast. Nothing else comes through. 

He scoffs under his breath, pocketing the phone and draining the last of his drink. Of course. Harper just used him. Got what she wanted—a ride to Charlotte, no questions asked—and then dipped. Wouldn’t be the first time someone played him for a fool. Hell, he probably should’ve expected it. She practically screamed flight risk. 

Still…it stings. She’s just like Katherine. 

“Harper’s not coming,” He mutters, half to himself, half to Elena, who gives him a side-glance over the rim of her glass. He doesn’t elaborate. 

“Why did you bring her here in the first place?” Elena asks, voice cool, her eyes sharp and unreadable. 

He leans back on the stool, arms crossed, jaw clenched. “I thought I saw something in her,” he says. “Guess I was wrong about that one.”

And just like that, the warmth he’d had toward her—those flickers of curiosity, of concern—start to cool into something bitter and hard. She's probably halfway out of town by now, laughing at how easy it was to get him to play chauffeur.

Elena sets down her glass, her gaze dropping for just a moment. “Maybe that’s a good thing,” she says quietly. 

“What?” Damon asks, brow furrowed, confusion slipping into irritation. 

Elena meets his gaze, hesitant. “There’s… a lot of stories about Harper,” she says carefully. “She was kind of a problem child. Always starting fights, screwing with the Founding Families. She hurt a lot of people, and never seemed to care about it.” She pauses. “I just wouldn’t want you getting too close. In case…”

She doesn’t finish, but the implication hangs in the air.

Damon’s expression hardens. His voice turns cold. “In case what? I fall off the bandwagon? Stop playing the good guy ? I’m not Stefan, Elena.” 

“Damon, that’s not what I said–” she starts, but it’s too late. He’s already sliding off the stool, grabbing his jacket in one fluid, angry motion. 

“I’m going to get a real drink,” he mutters over his shoulder, not looking back as he strides out of the bar. 

The crisp, autumn breeze brushes past him, laced with the smell of booze, cigarettes, and…blood? He stiffens, head tilting slightly. Then he hears it—shouting, distant but sharp. A muffled cry. 

His gut twists. 

No. No, she ditched him. Used him for a ride and vanished. Whatever trouble she’s in now, it’s not his problem. She made her choice. 

Another scream. Louder this time. 

He curses under his breath. “Dammit, Harper…”

He’s already moving, boots slamming against pavement as he cuts through the dark alleyways like a bullet. He doesn’t know what he’s about to walk into—doesn’t care. All he knows is someone’s hurting her.

There’s three of them. Harper’s pinned to the wall, barely upright, blood pouring from her nose and trailing down her chin. A jagged gash blooms at her temple, leaking red into her hairline. One of her attackers—thin, twitchy, with a glint of metal in hand—is carving something into her shoulder. An X. Deliberate. Cruel.

For a split second, all he can do is stare—like his brain needs an extra second to catch up. It’s not just the blood. It’s her face. The rage in her eyes. She’s still fighting, even as her body gives out.

His fangs rip through his gums before he even thinks. One step forward—then he’s on them. He lunges at the biggest one first, sinking his teeth deep into his throat and tearing it open. Blood sprays. Damon tosses the body aside like trash. The redhead doesn’t have time to run—Damon grabs him by the collar and smashes his head into the concrete. Once. Twice. Out cold. Then comes the one with the knife. Damon slaps them to the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of them. He looms over them, blood dripping from his chin, the veins surrounding his eyes black and pulsing. 

Red. All he sees is red. 

The attacker scrambles back, heels slipping in blood, and lets out a scream—a raw, animalistic sound. They flee into the dark, knife forgotten. Damon takes a step forward, ready to finish it—Then he hears it. 

A soft thud. Flesh meeting concrete. 

He turns quickly to see Harper collapse, her head smacking against the pavement.

“Shit.”

He’s at her side in a flash, scooping her up with a gentleness that clashes with the violence still buzzing through his limbs. Her body is limp, bloodied. Too still. He notices her cracked phone on the ground and pockets it. He bolts toward his car, cradling her the whole way. The backseat door swings open, and he lays her down carefully, brushing blood-matted hair from her face. He bites into his wrist, a quick, painful puncture, and blood spills into his palm. He presses it to her lips, forcing it past her clenched teeth, urging her to drink.

He vanishes back into the bar, wiping his face with the back of his hand—fangs gone, jaw tight, and rage tucked beneath layers of control. His eyes immediately land on Elena, perched on a barstool, laughing as she chats up some Lacoste-wearing frat boy. Her smile is bright, easy, and something about it twists a knot deep in Damon’s chest.

He doesn’t waste time. His voice is cold, sharp. “We gotta go.” Without waiting for her response, he grabs her jacket, forcing her arms through the sleeves with an urgency that borders on aggression.

The frat boy tries to push him off, but it’s futile. Damon is a wall, immovable. He turns to the guy, the ice in his gaze freezing the air around them. “Touch me again,” Damon growls, his voice low and dangerous, “and I’ll rip your heart out and shove it so far up your ass you’ll really have something to choke on.”

The frat boy freezes, eyes wide, mouth agape. Damon smiles coldly, then yanks Elena’s arm, pulling her toward the exit.

Elena grabs his arm, her fingers tight with concern. “What’s going on?” she says, panic creeping into her voice.

“Harper. She got jumped,” Damon replies curtly, not sparing her a glance as he drags her out the door.

When they get in the car, Harper is still unconscious in the backseat, but the gash on her head has closed. Damon’s blood is already working through her system. She’s pale, bruised, and curled up like she’s bracing for another hit. Elena sucks in a breath when she sees her, but doesn’t say anything. The drive back to Mystic Falls is dead silent. Damon’s knuckles whiten around the steering wheel as he speeds through the empty roads, engine growling beneath them. He doesn’t care if Harper saw his face—or what he is. Compulsion will fix that. What rattles him is why . Why was she jumped? What kind of hell did she dig herself into to deserve that? The warnings echo louder now—Elena’s voice, Bonnie’s concern, even Caroline’s rumors. “She’s trouble,” they’d said.

Damon pulls up in front of Elena’s house, stepping out of the car, and walks her to the door. 

Before he can say a word, Elena turns to him, arms folded tight, eyes softer now. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” she sighs. “I just— I don’t want this to turn into another Andie situation.”

“I know.” Damon says softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch is careful, tender. “I’m going to take her home. Make sure she didn’t see anything she wasn’t supposed to.” 

He leans in, pressing a kiss to her cheek. She lets him. 

“Goodnight, Elena.” 

As Damon drives back to his house, Harper still knocked out in the backseat, he stares at the road ahead but his thoughts keep circling back to Elena’s words. Another Andie situation. He almost scoffs at the idea. And yet… the worry in Elena’s voice, the softness she used—like she couldn’t bear the thought of Damon being with anyone else—leaves a strange, bubbling feeling in his chest.

Could this mystery girl have managed to fulfill her end of the deal without even trying?

He pulls into his driveway, headlights cutting across the front of the boarding house. The engine cuts, and for a moment, there’s just stillness. Then—

A shift. A groan. He turns in his seat.

Harper stirs in the back, blinking rapidly, hand going straight to her head. She winces, fingers brushing dried blood near her temple. Then she jolts upright, breath hitching as memory slams into her. Her eyes lock with Damon’s through the rearview mirror.

“What happened?” Harper asks, voice rough as she scrambles upright, eyes darting around the car. Then out the window. Panic flickers behind her eyes.

“I saved your ass, that’s what happened.” Damon replies, already stepping out of the driver’s seat. He rounds the car and opens the door for her, offering her his hand. She stares at it for a second before taking it, reluctantly, her legs unsteady beneath her. 

As she steps out, her eyes trail up to the looming shape of the boarding house. Her face twists with annoyance. “Can you just take me home?” she mutters. She reaches up to rub her face—and yelps. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” 

“At least let me get you some ice for that,” Damon says, eyeing her with guarded concern. Her nose is clearly broken—crooked and swelling fast. His blood won’t readjust broken bones.

“Ugh, fine,” she grumbles, stomping toward the door with all the grace of a drunken sailor, cursing under her breath the whole way. “Only because my nose is broken.” 

Damon guides her into the bathroom, flipping on the light. “Stay here. I’ll grab some ice, then I’ll pop it back into place.”

Harper raises her hand, stopping him in his tracks. “No. I’ll do it. Just get me a board.” 

He freezes. “A what?” 

“A board. A book. A plank. I don’t care,” she snaps, irritation leaking into her voice. “Something hard and straight.” 

Damon raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “If you wanted me all this time, you should’ve just said so.”

Her glare could curdle blood. “I’m going to kill you.” 

Damon chuckles, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll go find your... hard and straight object.” He turns toward the hallway, chuckling.

He grabs one of Stefan’s books from the library— The Great Gatsby, a first edition. Hopefully, Stefan won’t mind. Damon isn’t sure why she needs a book in the first place, but the look in her eyes tells him not to argue. 

He returns to find Harper staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, a mixture of frustration and resignation on her face. For a moment, he watches her, an unfamiliar tug in his chest. She looks... defeated, vulnerable.

When she notices him standing there, she quickly grabs the book from his hands, muttering a soft “Thanks” before holding it up to one side of her crooked nose. She winces, clearly not thrilled with the situation, but determined. Damon stays silent, watching her with apt curiosity. It’s strange—he’s used to being the one in control, but with Harper, it feels different. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

Damon’s eyes widen in disbelief as Harper slams her fist into the side of her nose, using the book as a barrier on the other side to keep it straight. The sound of the punch is brutal, and for a moment, he’s frozen, unsure of how to react.

“Fuck!” she wails, her face contorting in pain. Blood pours from her nose, staining the sink in a crimson rush. Damon flinches as the blood hits the porcelain, the smell of it thick in the air. She stumbles forward, turning on the faucet and splashing cold water onto her face, trying to clean herself up, though her hands shake as they do. 

Damon watches, his mind racing. He should probably step back. Let her handle it herself. But something inside him pulls him forward. “Well that’s one way to do it,” he mutters. Without thinking, he steps closer and gently grabs a handful of her hair, pulling it out of her face so she can rinse the blood away. Her nose is straight now, barely a trace of the crooked mess it was just seconds ago. Where the hell did she learn to do that?

She finally looks at him, her eyes red and watery, full of exhaustion. Damon’s gaze softens, but he says nothing. Instead, he grabs a towel from the counter and gently presses it against her nose, holding it there with careful hands. Harper winces but doesn’t pull away. “Thank you,” she whispers. 

He watches her carefully. “You should’ve let me fix it,” he mutters, but it’s less of a criticism and more of an observation. He wants to offer more, wants to ask where the hell she learned to handle pain like this, but the words stick in his throat.

She doesn’t respond at first, lifting her shirt up to asses her beaten ribs. He watches as she winces, her fingers moving cautiously as she prods the tender spots. The bruises are already starting to form, faint blue spreading across her side. He hadn’t given her enough blood for the bruising to go away, but at least the gash on her forehead closed up. 

Harper lets out a low hiss as she presses against a particularly sore spot, her breath catching slightly. “It’s fine,” she says eventually, voice tight. “I can handle it myself.” When Damon doesn’t respond, she continues. “I don’t think they’re broken, just bruised,” she says, letting out a sigh of relief. 

Damon’s gaze lingers for a moment longer than necessary, taking in the soft curve of her waist, the way her tan skin catches the dim light of the room. His eyes dip lower, briefly tracing the tattoo that peeks from under her skirt—the urge to know what it is gnaws at him, but he doesn’t let it show. He quickly snaps his attention back to her face, aware of how dangerous it is to let his mind wander in this direction, especially with someone like Harper.

“Do you want me to check them?” Damon asks, his tone casual. He knows his blood has already healed the broken bones, but he’s curious about how the rest of her feels. 

He watches as she stiffens at his question, her eyes flashing with a sharp edge. Her words cut through the air like a challenge. "Are you a doctor?"

"No," Damon responds, his voice steady, the corner of his mouth lifting in a subtle smirk. He's testing her, pushing boundaries, just to see how she'll react.

"Then I don’t want you to check," Harper snaps.

Damon’s jaw ticks. He saved her life—hell, fed her his blood—and she’s still snapping? His irritation simmers into something colder. “You fucked up everything tonight. You were useless.”

Harper’s eyes flash, fire rising. “I got jumped! Sorry your ‘master plan’ didn’t account for that.” 

Damon’s expression hardens into ice. “No wonder your family threw you out. You ungrateful brat.”

That one lands. Harper flinches, then covers it with rage. “You’re a real ass, you know that?”

“And you’re a bitch,” Damon fires back, the words sharp and final.

Harper flips him off, storming out the house, then slams the door behind her hard enough to rattle the walls.

Damon follows her, unable to fight the invisible thread yanking him toward her. “Where are you going?” he calls out.

“Home, Jackass!” Harper shouts over her shoulder, not sparing him a glance. 

“You’re not walking,” Damon says, trying to keep his voice level. 

“Yes, I am.” 

“No, you’re not.” 

With a few long strides, he catches up. She picks up her pace just to spite him.

“Watch me,” she bites, right before he grabs her arm. She tries to yank it back, but the movement twists her ribs and her breath hitches in pain. Damon doesn’t let go—he just holds her steady.

“I won’t say anything,” he says quietly, “I won’t do anything. Just let me drive you home.” 

Harper just looks at him through her long lashes, mascara smudged, hair damp and tangled—she looks like a waterboarded raccoon, and somehow still manages to be stunning. She sighs and nods, slipping into the car without another word. She tells him her address, and the rest of the drive is silent. Heavy. When Damon pulls up to the curb, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out her phone, holding it out.

“You dropped this,” he says. 

She goes to grab it, but his fingers tighten around it, keeping it in his grasp. She stills, her eyes flicking up to his, tension creeping into her frame. 

“You’re gonna forget what happened tonight,” Damon says, voice low, eyes locking onto hers like a vice. 

After a beat, Harper scoffs. “Like hell I am.” She snatches the phone from his grasp and unbuckles her seatbelt in one smooth motion.

Damon watches her, jaw tightening. 

Vervain.

She’s not wearing any obvious bracelets or necklaces. Maybe she drinks it? But then—there it is. Her ears are full of piercings, but two stand out: tiny, heart-shaped lockets dangling from her earlobes.

Bingo.

As she steps out of the car, she pauses, then leans her head back in through the open door. Her voice is dry.

“Thank you for driving me home,” Harper says quietly, eyes fixed on the ground. “And for saving my ass.” 

“Would you look at that,” Damon drawls, cocking his head “She does have manners.”

Harper rolls her eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Night, Jackass.” She shuts the door without looking back.

Damon doesn’t drive off until he sees her disappear inside.

—

Harper enters the house and leans against the door, feeling the weight of exhaustion drag her down. The lights are still on, and she can hear the faint clink of coins—Trudy must’ve finished work for the night. She moves quietly through the kitchen, catching sight of Trudy lounging at the table, cigarette dangling from her lips as she lazily counts the night’s earnings.

Trudy glances up briefly, her heavy fake lashes fluttering as she takes in Harper’s state. “You look like absolute shit, hunny.” She snorts, a grin spreading across her face, then returns to her counting.

Harper’s mouth goes dry, words stuck in her throat. Her fight is over, for now. She can’t summon the energy to answer. Instead, she drags herself up the stairs, each step sending sharp pangs through her bruised ribs, her body protesting with every movement. She doesn’t even bother changing; she just collapses into bed, the sheets cool against her skin. Within moments, sleep takes her, deeper than she’s had in years. Her dreams are a blur of raven hair and piercing blue eyes, soft whispers trailing through the dark.

Notes:

Have you guys been noticing some of Damon's lines from the show? It helps me get his character right when writing, which is harder than I ever thought it would be. Who knew writing for a character that isn't yours would be terribly difficult lol. It's exam season right now, so the next chapter won't be out until probably next week, but at least I got these ones out fairly quickly.

Side note: I was thinking of adding Klaus as a romantic interest, but I'm trying to tell myself that not all enemies shall become lovers, some just need to stay enemies. What do you guys think?

Lots of Love,
Bunzie<3

Chapter 5: Batman

Summary:

Haunted by the night before, Harper goes looking for answers—but gets pulled into the chaos of Homecoming at Mystic Falls High instead.

Notes:

Hey guys, I hope you are all doing well! Again, I don't know how this chapter got this long, but alas, here we are. As promised, I was able to get this chapter up within about a week or so. My last two exams really drained me mentally and physically, so this was a lot harder to write. It's not the most action packed, but I needed some filler to get the ball rolling. Ok, I'll stop yapping.

Enjoy the chapter!

P.S. Whether you're celebrating Easter, Passover, Eid, any other holidays, or just enjoying the spring-thank you for reading, and enjoy the long weekend!

The next morning, Harper wakes with a start, sheets tangled around her legs. For a moment, she doesn’t know where she is. The ceiling above her is stained, familiar, but the quiet hum of the room still feels wrong. Then it clicks—Aunt Trudy’s house. Damon dropped her off last night. The ache in her ribs. The sharp throb behind her eyes. 

Flashes of last night flicker behind her eyelids—gravel under her knees, fists in her sides, Damon’s back turned against her in the fading light.

She blinks the sleep away and sits up, groaning at the soreness spreading through her arms and legs. Moving slowly, she shuffles to the bathroom, flicking on the harsh yellow light, and leans over the sink.

The cut on her forehead is nothing more than a faint mark. She leans closer, brushing her fingers over the skin. It should have needed stitches. Should’ve scabbed at least. Her shoulder, too—the one Switch had sliced with their stupid little pocketknife—is just a barely-there X, soft and pink like an old scar, not the fresh, gaping wound she remembered. Her nose still aches, but it’s straight. Normal. Her ribs, though bruised, don’t feel like the cracked mess they should be.

“What the hell?” she whispers.

She knew she’d been bleeding. She remembers the warmth of it, the way it soaked into her shirt. Switch wouldn’t just lightly scratch her—the sick fuck. Her fingers curl around the edge of the sink. Damon had fought them off—but all three of them? Alone?

Something didn’t add up. 

She hadn’t asked how he managed to get them off of her. She was too delirious last night to think straight. Did he have a gun? No—there weren’t any shots. A knife, maybe? Her mind flashes to Deek’s body. Blood had been pouring from his neck in waves. They’re not dead, right? No, they can’t be dead. Panic coils in her gut, cold and slow, slithering up her spine. They were her friends, her only friends. Then again… were her friends. They tried to sell her off to her parents. And God knows what would’ve happened once they realized her parents didn’t give a damn whether she lived or died.

Before she could spiral any further, her phone rings from the nightstand. She jumps slightly, the sharp sound slicing through the silence. Still foggy, she walks out of the bathroom and glances at the alarm clock. 2 p.m. With a groggy sigh, she picks up the phone. Matt. 

“Hey, Matt. What’s up?” she says, voice thick with sleep.

“Hey, Harp. I know you were supposed to have the day off, but Dylan can’t make it in today. We’re short at the bar.” Matt says, sounding genuinely apologetic. 

Harper rubs her temple. “Yeah, no problem. I’ll be there in a bit.”

She hangs up, grateful for the distraction. She was supposed to be coming home from Charlotte today with Damon and Elena—but of course, their trip was cut short.

A creeping layer of guilt sweeps over her for everything she’d put Damon through. He’d driven her to Charlotte, expected some kind of deal in return, got nothing for it, and then ended up saving her from being assaulted. What a hassle she must’ve been. She opens his contact, thumb hovering over the keyboard. A thank you. An apology. Something. But after a few seconds, she locks her phone and sets it down. Better not poke the bear. 

He probably wanted nothing to do with her after last night. After the way she snapped at him. After the mess she’d been. Everything with Tess had left her reeling, and then her own crew turned on her like rabid dogs. She could count the times in her life she’d felt this vulnerable on one hand—this was definitely up there. 

Tears began to well up in her eyes, a loneliness so overwhelming consuming her. Her hands tremble as she rummages through her closet, finding her work uniform. Memories claw at the edge of her mind—blurry, sharp, all at once. A bottomless sadness blooms in her chest, spreading like ink in water.

She descends the stairs like a ghost, her mind detached, as if she were watching herself from somewhere else—behind glass, a world away. In the kitchen, she reaches for the coffee pot, letting the steam rise into her face, hot and comforting. Her fingers tighten around the handle of her mug. 

Harper hadn’t even noticed Trudy sitting at the kitchen table until her gravelly voice broke through the silence.

“You’re scratching again.”

Harper flinches, the mug nearly slipping from her hand. She looks down to find herself scratching her forearm, leaving red lines in its place. She stops, then pulls her sleeves down. 

“You’ve lost weight. You look lanky like your mother,” Trudy adds, not unkindly, just matter-of-fact. She’s flipping through an old Vogue magazine, a half-lit cigarette smoldering between her fingers, lipstick smudged on the filter.  

Harper forces a smile, brittle at the edges. “Thanks. Always good to hear first thing in the morning.”

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“Right.” Harper sips her coffee, letting the bitter warmth distract her from the thoughts clawing at her skull. 

Trudy had always loathed Harper. From the day she was born, to the day she ended up on her doorstep at 14, she had avoided her as much as possible. Harper was a constant reminder of her sister’s betrayal and a life she could’ve had, but for her sins, was given another. 

Trudy narrows her eyes, not moving from her seat. “You look rough.”

Harper stares into her mug. “I’m fine.”

“Liar,” Trudy says, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. “Just don’t fall apart on me. No one is coming to pick you back up.” 

Harper gives a small nod, eyes fixed on the floor. It wasn’t comfort. But it was the truth, and that’s all she needed. Shaking off her thoughts, she grabs her keys and heads out the door. 

***

Harper’s shift at the Grill started off like any other—cold beer bottles, the steady clink of glass, and the low hum of conversations. She focused on the customers, keeping her hands busy, her mind blank. For a while, it worked. But she couldn’t escape the thoughts creeping in. Tess’s words. The bruises. The betrayal. 

She was pouring a beer, her mind absentmindedly drifting as she listened in on a couple’s conversation at the bar. That was until she noticed someone sit at the bar to her left. She looked up, instinctively brushing a few stray hairs from her face, and immediately met Damon’s gaze. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Hey, kitty,” he says, his voice low and amused. “How are the ribs?”

Kitty ? The nickname caught Harper off guard. What kind of nickname was that? she thought, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

“Hey, jackass,” she shot back, lips twitching. “An they're fine. I was meaning to ask you–” 

She freezes as her eyes land on the woman settling beside him, designer bag resting on the counter, pearls straining against her neck.

“Carol,” Damon says casually, a smirk tugging at his lips, “let me introduce you to my new friend—Harper.” He draws the name out like a punchline, clearly enjoying the sheer panic flashing across Harper’s face. 

Carol Lockwood looks up, her eyes locking onto Harper’s. For a moment, genuine shock breaks through her practiced poise.

“Harper Bradshaw?” she says, the name sharp in her mouth. Then, just as quickly, she smooths it over with a smile worth a million bucks and zero sincerity. “My goodness, it’s been ages . I hardly recognized you!”

It had only been two years, but Carol Lockwood had the memory span of a goldfish and the ego of a queen—so to her, it might as well have been a lifetime. Still, Harper musters her best customer service smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Carol Lockwood,” she says smoothly. “Didn’t think I’d ever have the pleasure of seeing you again.”

“Does your mother know you’re here?” Carol asks, her voice honeyed with faux concern. “I was just over there the other day—we’re planning the Founder's Party—but she never mentioned you were visiting.”

The smile on her face was all teeth and tension, and Harper knew that tone. She was trying to get under her skin.

Harper gives a sharp, joyless laugh. “I’d be surprised if they knew I was alive.”

“Yes, well, you did run away from home,” Carol replies, eyes crinkling in that insufferably smug way. “Your mother was so shocked when your aunt told her. Just devastated.”

“Yeah, I’m sure she was.” Harper mutters, her voice flat. 

Trying to steer the conversation elsewhere, Harper offers a polite smile. “I heard about your husband’s passing. My condolences.” 

The former Mayor of Mystic Falls had a reputation—stern, prideful, and, depending on who you asked, a real prick. Harper remembers him from old Founder’s events, always stiff in a suit, always watching. He used to ask her about school, her friends, if she was staying out of trouble. Still, she had kept her distance. She’d seen how he treated Tyler—how cold that household was. Small talk was all she ever gave back.

Damon pipes in, placing a hand on Carol’s shoulder with exaggerated sympathy. “It was very sad to see him go,” he says, his tone dripping with mock sympathy that only Harper could catch. “Carol’s done a wonderful job filling in his shoes.”

Harper raises an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth curling into a smirk. “Well, looks like you still know how to catch a guy’s eye.” she says, tilting her head towards Damon, clearly meaning it as a joke.

Carol’s cheeks flush a deep crimson, and she straightens up a little, clearly pleased with herself. Harper couldn’t help but stifle a laugh at how easily Carol had bought into Damon’s charm. 

“Oh, well,” Carol replies, flipping her hand as if brushing aside any notion of modesty, “I like to keep young.” She smiles roguishly, her face twisting into that of a woman who believed she was still in her prime. Then, as if to seal the moment, Carol does a weird shimmy with her shoulders, reminding Harper of a bird puffing up its feathers.

Harper nearly gags. She swallows thickly, forcing a tight smile and cuts a glance at Damon in silent plea.

He, of course, looks thoroughly entertained, clearly enjoying every second of her discomfort. But thankfully, he steps in before things got worse. 

“I was just convincing Carol to host the Homecoming party at her house,” he says, shooting Harper a knowing smile and motioning for a drink. “The gym’s flooded, and Caroline’s been barking up the walls about it.” 

Carol beams at Damon, then turns her polished smile back on Harper. “Isn’t he just the sweetest? Always looking out for the people of Mystic Falls. A true Founder’s leader.”

Harper snorts under her breath as she pulls out Damon’s preferred bourbon and pours him a generous glass. She grabs Carol’s drink next, sliding it across the bar. She is about to walk away when Damon catches her wrist, halting her.

“Hey,” he said, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. “Why don’t you come to the party?”

The look Carol shot Harper could’ve made the Devil himself piss his pants. Harper flinches, barely masking the way her nose curled at the very suggestion. The message was loud and clear—Harper Bradshaw was not welcome on her estate. 

“Uh, I don’t know…” Harper scrambles for an excuse. “Trudy needs me. For… something.”

“Aw, come on. It’s a big party!” Damon grins, relishing in Harper’s discomfort. “Alumni come too—it’s all good fun. Don’t you think she should come, Mayor?”

Carol pauses for a beat too long. Then, through a too-tight smile, she says, “Of course. A Mystic Falls alum is always welcome for school spirit.

"Okay, I’ll think about it." Harper peels Damon’s hand off her wrist, the warmth of his palm sending a jolt straight to her chest. She ignores it, stepping back like nothing had happened. 

Harper moves to the other end of the bar, striking up casual conversations with a few regulars. She can feel his eyes on her the whole time, a quiet burn at the back of her neck, but she doesn’t dare look back. Why would he invite her to Homecoming? And why is he even going? She doesn’t remember ever seeing his name in any yearbook, no mention in any alumni lists. She shrugs to herself, wiping down the counter. He’s probably going for Elena.

By the time Carol finally leaves Damon’s side, Harper’s ribs are screaming and the dull throb in her head is blooming into a full-blown headache. When her break hits, she slips out the back, lighting a cigarette with shaky fingers. Leaning against the brick wall, she rubs her temples, breathing in slowly. Smoke curls from her lips as she closes her eyes, trying to will the pain away. But her mind drifts—back to last night. The way Damon looked at her in the bathroom. The way his eyes had lingered on her stomach, her neck, like he was memorizing her.  

She shivers. Then grimaces. God, what the hell is wrong with her? Her hormones must be going haywire or something. It’s been too long since she’s been with anyone—she’s probably just feeling that...itch.

Bumming out her smoke, she turns to head back inside, but is abruptly stopped as an arm wraps around hers, pulling her back. 

Harper jumps back, stifling a scream, instinctively throwing her arms up to protect her face.

“Woah there, tiger, I was just letting you know that your break’s up,” Matt says, stepping back with his hands raised in surrender. 

Relief floods Harper’s system as she locks eyes with him, the familiar blue gaze offering some comfort. “What the hell is wrong with you?” she snaps, shoving lightly at Matt’s chest. “You scared the shit out of me!”

“I thought you saw me come out!” Matt says, concern creeping into his voice. “You’re not looking so good.”

“I’m fine.” Harper responds curtly, trying to mask the sharp pain that shoots up her side as she winces.

Matt’s gaze lingers on her, clearly seeing through the lie, but he lets it go. “Alright, just let me know if you need anything.” He holds the door open for her as he heads back inside the Grill.

When Harper reaches the bar, she sees Damon surrounded by Elena and a girl she’s never met before. The girl is stunning, probably around Elena’s age, and is arguing with both of them, her phone waving in their faces like a weapon. 

A low growl escapes the girl’s throat as she suddenly points directly at Harper. “You, girl. Come here.” Her tone is bossy, and Harper glances behind her awkwardly, making sure she’s the one being addressed. Once she realizes the girl’s attention is on her, she hesitates before walking up.

“Since these morons can’t pick a dress for me, you choose.” The girl’s British accent is thick, laced with vitriol.

She shoves her phone in Harper’s face. There are four dresses on the screen, each likely hundreds of dollars, but one stands out more than the rest.

“Uh, the red one?” Harper says, hesitantly. “It matches your... bright personality?”

“You are so right!” The girl exclaims, smiling at Harper like she just won some kind of prize. “Impeccable taste.” She gets up from the stool, shoots Elena a snarky look, and walks out of the bar with a satisfied smirk. 

“Who was that?” Harper asks, her eyes wide with a mix of confusion and amusement.

“That was Rebekah,” Elena sighs, not bothering to elaborate. 

“She’s feisty—kinda like you, kitty.” Damon teases, a smirk tugging at his lips as he grabs the elastic around Harper’s wrist, fiddling with it between his thumbs.

Harper stiffens at the contact, her gaze shifting to Elena, who’s furrowing her brows before clearing her throat. “Well, Damon and I have to go. Homecoming plans,” Elena says, flashing a tight smile at Harper before standing up and grabbing Damon’s arm. “I’ll see you Friday?” 

“Yeah. See you Friday, I guess.” Harper mutters, still confused by the interaction. “Wait—” She grabs Damon’s arm, leaning in close. “How did you manage to stop my friends last night? You were outnumbered—it doesn’t add up.” 

Damon leans in with a grin, his voice lowering to a deep, mocking whisper. “I’m Batman.” He winks, then throws on his jacket and walks off with Elena, leaving Harper standing there, dumbfounded.

*** 

Back at Trudy’s house that night, Harper lay sprawled on the couch with a half-melted ice pack tucked beneath her shirt and a bowl of cereal balancing on her stomach. The TV flickers with reruns of some outdated sitcom, the laugh track grating and hollow. She flips through channels aimlessly, eyes glazed over, attention anywhere but on the screen. 

Her thoughts refused to settle. Carol’s passive-aggressive smile, Matt’s worried eyes, Rebekah’s terrifying confidence, Elena’s tight-lipped discomfort—and Damon. Damon, Damon, Damon. His stupid smirk. His big hands. That damn “I’m Batman.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Harper mutters, dragging the spoon through soggy cereal.

Upstairs, Trudy was clearly getting ready for work. The sounds of dresser drawers slamming, hangers clattering, and heels stomping across the floor thundered through the old house. Every few minutes, Harper would hear a frustrated curse followed by the whirr of a blow dryer or the sharp snap of a curling iron. 

She winces as she shifts on the couch, the ache in her ribs reminding her she still wasn’t healed from last night’s ambush. Reaching for the remote again, she turns the volume up to drown out Trudy’s stomping upstairs, but just as she settles back—

The phone rings.  

“You gonna get that?” Trudy yells from upstairs, already irritated by the second ring. 

Harper groans, dragging herself off the couch. She shuffles into the kitchen and grabs the phone off the wall, ice pack still clinging to her side. “Hello?”

Silence. 

She sighs, must be a scam caller. “No, I don’t want my damn ducts cleaned. No, I haven’t won a trip to Fiji. And no, I haven’t committed tax fraud— at least not in the past three years, ” she snaps, ready to slam the phone back on the hook.

But just before she does, a soft voice crackles through the line. 

“Harper? Is that really you?” 

Her entire body goes rigid. The ice pack slips from her side and hits the floor with a dull thud .

Mom. 

Harper doesn’t know what to say. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. So she does the only thing she can think of—she hangs up. The click echoes louder than it should. The phone rings again, sharp and jarring, but Harper barely hears it. Everything feels muffled, like her head’s underwater. Trudy’s yelling carries down the stairs, distant and distorted, like it’s coming through a tunnel. Harper moves on instinct—bowl abandoned, ice pack forgotten. She walks to the door, fingers fumbling with the knob like they’ve forgotten how it works. 

The phone keeps ringing. Trudy keeps shouting. Her heart keeps pounding.

She slams the door behind her and walks into the night.

Notes:

Et voilà! I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the cliffhanger at the end. This slow burn is supposed to be really, well, slow. So, please be patient with the actual romance part. I try to throw things in there to keep it interesting, but Harper is clearly a very damaged individual, and it would be unrealistic for her to let her guard down around men. I think it's important to get her background out there before jumping into the fluff and smut, but trust me this is still a romance fic, just slow. Anyways, I'm already working on the next two chapters, and it gets really exciting from here! I'll probably have the next one out over the weekend.

Love,

Bunzie <3

Chapter 6: Family Affairs

Summary:

Harper is forced to confront her mother, and buried family tensions arise from it. A tense smoke break turns explosive when Damon crosses a line—and she is unexpectedly swooped into a date to Homecoming.

Notes:

Exams are still kicking my ass, but I'm on the home stretch. I wanted to post this on time since I promised a chapter this weekend, but tbh I can't lock down a time for the next chapter. I'll try to work on it after my final exams this week, but no promises on when it'll be posted. Nonetheless, I appreciate every read and kudos, it's been making my studying a lot more enjoyable!

Enjoy the chapter!

Harper wakes with a pounding headache and the bitter taste of stale cigarettes coating her tongue. Her mouth is dry, her ribs ache like hell, and her jeans are still on. 

Her mother calling out of the blue had triggered something deep in her—panic, mostly, but also that bone-deep dread she hadn’t felt since she was fourteen. She assumes Carol had snitched about her return. Of course she did.

The night before comes back in pieces—walking to the bodega across the street, buying a six pack with whatever crumpled bills she had in her back pocket. Sitting on the curb, crushing can after can. Not her finest moment. She knows that. But at least she didn’t slash someone's tires this time. At least she thinks she didn’t. 

She grabs her phone from the nightstand, surprised to see it’s only 8 a.m. What surprises her more is a text from Damon—timestamped 2:16 a.m.

Damon (2:16 AM): Still alive, Kitty? Or should I check the police blotter in case you murdered Carol Lockwood? 

Harper groans to herself before responding. 

Harper (8:06 AM): Barely. But no handcuffs this time. She's safe for another day. 

He answers back immediately. 

Damon (8:07 AM): Shame. I was just starting to think they’d look good on you. 

Harper stares at the screen, cheeks burning. Was he drunk?

She sits up too fast, wincing as her ribs remind her they’re still bruised. She strips out of yesterday’s clothes and stumbles into the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face. He’s just… worried about Carol. Yeah. That’s it. He’s a flirt. He makes jokes. He’s worried about his… friend? Partner? Whatever. It doesn’t matter.  

Harper heads downstairs, surprised to find the house still empty. Trudy hasn’t returned yet.

Weird.

Trudy rarely stays out all night—she usually stumbles in around four a.m., either high or drunk. It’s taken Harper years to manage the quiet anxiety around how exactly her aunt makes her money, but it never really gets easier. When she was younger, she didn’t understand it. Trudy would leave the house late, dressed to the nines, and come back in unfamiliar cars with unfamiliar men.

Soon enough Harper learned to stop asking questions and to just accept it. 

Trying to distract herself, she makes a pot of coffee, waiting for the hiss and gurgle of the machine to give her something to focus on. She pulls out her phone and sends another message to Jackie. She hasn’t given up yet.  

Harper (8:32 AM): Hey. I don’t know if you’ll see this, but I miss you. Please text me back. I need you.

No answer. Nothing from the rest of the crew either. They’re probably still licking their wounds after Damon beat the shit out of them. Or rather, how Batman beat the shit out of them.

Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she carries it to the kitchen table and scrolls aimlessly through social media. Her fingers pause when a knock echoes from the front door.

She freezes.

Trudy never forgets her keys.

Brows furrowed, Harper sets her mug down and heads for the door. Her hand hovers over the lock for a second longer than necessary before she twists it open.

“Mom.” 

Lily Bradshaw stood on the porch, looking like she’d stepped out of a Southern Living magazine. Blonde hair curled, lips painted a soft rose, dressed in a blouse too delicate for this part of town. Mystic Falls' golden girl. The perfect wife to a prominent man. The kind of woman who brought casseroles to fundraisers and kissed babies at church functions.

To most, she was grace incarnate. To Harper, she was a ghost from a life she’d been exiled from.

“Hi, baby.” 

Her voice is softer than Harper remembers. 

“What are you doing here, Mom?” Harper’s tone is curt, clipped—armor for what's about to come.

“Carol told me you were in town. I just…wanted to check on you.” 

Harper rolls her eyes and starts to close the door.

“Wait—don’t close the door, just hear me out.” Her eyes flick past Harper like she’s bracing for a fight. 

There’s a tense pause before Harper lets out a breath and steps aside, wordlessly inviting her in. 

“Wow,” Lily murmurs, stepping inside. “It’s been years since I’ve been here.” She looks around the room and sets her purse down on the kitchen table. “Is Trudy home?” 

“No. She’s still out working.” Harper watches her mother flinch at that, then turns toward the kitchen. “Coffee?”

“Yes, please.” Lily sits down, smiling nervously. 

Harper returns a moment later with a cup. Two sugars, pinch of milk—just how her mother used to drink it. She sets it in front of her before taking the seat across the table. 

“So, how have you been?” Lily takes a sip at her coffee, smiling up at Harper. 

Seeing her mother on Trudy’s doorstep brings back memories Harper had buried deep—those first few months after being kicked out. Lily used to visit all the time. Even though she and Trudy barely got along, she still came around for Harper. On her fifteenth birthday, Lily bought her a pair of Ray-Bans—real ones—and a red MP3 player. Harper ended up selling the sunglasses at a garage sale, but she remembered the gesture. Her mom would sneak away whenever she could, usually on breaks from her job at Bradshaw Legal Group, always without Harper’s dad, Neil, knowing. At first, Lily had been devastated about Harper being sent away. She cried. She begged Neil to reconsider. But eventually, she started calling it “for the best.” More like Neil whispered it into her ear until it stuck.

Harper remembers one visit in particular, clearer than most. It was after a brutal day at school—kids whispering their usual cruel nicknames: bar sinister, by-blow, check baby. She finally snapped and broke a boy’s nose, then shoved dirt in his mouth for good measure. He’d had backup, though. Bullies always did. She came home bloody, one eye swollen shut, her eyebrow split open. Lily had pulled into the driveway at that exact moment, stepping out of her Mercedes in kitten heels and pearls. 

“Dear Lord, Harper! What happened?” Lily had cried, rushing toward her and grabbing her bloodied fists.

Harper yanked her hands away, stumbling back. “Mom, I don’t want you here anymore.”

Lily froze, the shock plain on her face. “Baby, you’re just in shock. Let’s go inside, talk about this.”

She reached for her, but Harper slapped her hand away.

“No. I can’t do this anymore.” Her voice cracked, but she held firm. “If you’re gonna abandon me, don’t half-ass it. It’ll just make it worse.” 

She turned and walked away without looking back. On the porch, Aunt Trudy stood leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a satisfied little smirk aimed right at Lily.

“Did you win the fight?” Trudy said, still smirking. 

“Yeah,” Harper muttered, opening the door.

“Good,” Trudy said with a nod. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Harper shakes her head, pushing the memory away. “I’m fine. I work at the Grill now.”

“I heard—that’s great,” Lily says, nodding as if pleasantly surprised Harper can hold down a job. “And how are your… outbursts?” 

Harper blinks. “What?”

“Your outbursts, sweetie. You were such a rowdy child. Your anger management skills were… well, let’s just say they needed work.” Lily laughs lightly, like she’s reminiscing about an old school play and not her daughter’s trauma. 

“I don’t have anger issues,” Harper snaps, stunned by the audacity of the comment. 

Lily looks at her sympathetically. “Harper, when you were thirteen, you set off fireworks into Mayor Lockwood’s house in the middle of the night because Tyler didn’t let you play tag.” 

Harper scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Come on, I was having a bad day.”

“When kids have bad days, they eat ice-cream and watch rom-coms. Maybe call a friend. They don’t retaliate with explosives.” 

Harper deadpans. “Oh, so that’s why you kicked me out. Because I had ‘violent tendencies’?”

Lily sighs, her tone sharpening. “Don’t start with me. You made it very difficult for us to keep you.”

Harper’s jaw clenches. “Right. So why are you here, Mom? If it’s just to offend me, go ahead and let yourself out.” 

“I came because of your brother.” Lily straightens in her seat. “He needs help—and I figured you owe him that much.”

Harper takes a long sip from her mug, eyes never leaving her mother. This could be a trick—using Will as bait to get her in her good graces. But the look on Lily’s face when she mentioned his name... it’s too raw to be a setup.

Harper leans back. “I’m listening.” 

“Will’s been having trouble at school. Ever since he started at Duke this fall, he’s been partying, getting into fights, his grades are slipping. The Dean’s even threatened to expel him,” Lily says, voice tight. 

Harper shrugs. “So? Sounds like every other college freshman. He’ll figure it out.” 

“He’s off the rails, Harper. He could lose his scholarship. He won’t even listen to your father,” Lily says, the edge in her voice softening. “He always looked up to you. Please... just talk to him.” 

Harper sighs, rubbing at the side of her face. She loves her brother—she really does. They don’t talk much these days, not since she left town, but she misses him. Lily’s right about one thing: Will had always idolized her. Wherever Harper went, he was right behind her, trying to keep up. 

“Fine,” Harper says, voice flat. “I’ll see what I can do.” 

Lily smiles. “Thank you.” Then, with a playful glance, “You’re much more agreeable now. Are you really not taking medication? Therapy?” 

Harper lets out a dry laugh. “No, Mom. Just rawdogging life the way God intended—no therapy, no meds.” She shakes her head. “Ever since you dumped me in this shithole, I haven’t had health insurance.”

Lily chuckles. “Oh please. You wouldn’t know what a ‘shithole’ was if it came served on a silver platter—”

Before she can finish, the front door slams open. Trudy barrels in, slurring her words, half-stumbling into the room like a wrecking ball. 

“What the fuck is that car doing on my driveway?!”

Harper jumps to her feet, instinctively shielding her mom from view. But Lily doesn’t catch the cue and rises too, her own surprise painted across her face. 

“You!” Trudy stumbles into the kitchen, her drunken legs barely holding her upright. She points a shaky finger at Lily. “Get the fuck out of my house, you stuck-up bitch!” 

Lily gasps, her eyes widening at the sight of Trudy. Red lipstick smudged to one side, wild curls in disarray, and cheetah print heels hanging from one hand.  

Harper steps forward, hands raised in a futile attempt at peace. “She was just leaving—”

Her words are cut short by a sharp sting on her cheek. Trudy’s slap echoes through the room.

“If you ever bring anyone else into this house again,” Trudy spits, “so help me God, I’ll gut you like a pig. Then I’ll hang you on a wall, just like how we did in the Ozarks.” 

Silence falls heavily in the room as Trudy stumbles up the stairs, muttering under her breath. 

“Harper…” Lily whispers, her face pale with shock, her voice barely audible. 

Harper can’t meet her gaze, her voice low. “Just get out, Mom. I’ll talk to Will.”

Lily fumbles for her purse, her hands shaking as she hurriedly makes her exit, not a word more. The door slams shut behind her. 

____

Damon leans back against the polished wood of the bar, nursing a drink while watching Harper work. She looked as effortlessly beautiful as ever—sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned arms, brown hair twisted into a messy bun, and black jeans that clung in all the right places. But tonight, something was off. Her movements were too precise, too purposeful, like she was trying to outrun her own thoughts.

He’d been watching her for a while now. Kept his distance, mostly. But there was something about her that twisted in his gut, pulled him in like a moth to flame. Drumming his fingers idly on the bar, his thoughts flicked to the text he’d sent her last night. He hadn’t really expected a reply—but some part of him had hoped she’d bite. That she'd be awake, somewhere out there, just as restless as he was.

It had been one of those nights. Elena had dragged him out of the Grill and then laid into him—again. Another lecture about his behavior, how he was toying with Harper, how he couldn’t seem to control himself. Same tired speech. She was always trying to save him, to fix him, to mold him into his brother. But deep down, he wondered if maybe… just maybe, Elena was jealous. Jealous of the way he looked at Harper. The way Harper looked back. 

So, he'd sent the text. It was reckless. Too forward, maybe. But after everything with Andie, he’d felt like there was a void inside of him that only someone like Harper could fill. She was chaos and fire and fun, the kind of wild that made him feel alive again. He wasn’t looking for love. Just a distraction. A reminder to Elena of what she could have, if she’d just give in to him. 

He was frustrated when Harper left him on read this morning, more than it should have. He knew better than to expect anything. Harper wasn’t the kind of girl you sent a late-night message to and got a sure thing. She wasn’t easy —and that was exactly why he couldn’t look away.

But now, here he was, watching her work, and that nagging feeling in his chest only grew stronger. He wanted to know what her story was—why she was so guarded. He couldn’t help but want to push her boundaries, see what made her tick. Find out if she’d give in… or fight back. 

Damon’s gaze drifts to the group of rowdy guys stumbling into the bar, decked out in Duke University merch, each one of them sporting a mullet. Behind them trailed Tyler Lockwood, looking like a sore thumb in a sea of frat boy arrogance. The guy in front looked vaguely familiar—tall, blond, blue eyes. Their laughter was obnoxious as they sauntered up to the bar. The front-runner leaned casually against the counter, chatting with Tyler as he ordered a drink.

“You’re underage. I’m not serving you,” Harper deadpans, staring directly at the guy in front. 

Still looking away from her, the guy says, “Aw, come on, baby, we just—”

But when he turns, his face goes slack. “Harper?!” 

“Hey, Willie.” She smiles, casual as ever.

Damon’s curiosity gets the best of him. “Who’re you?” 

Harper side-eyes him and answers before the kid could. “He’s my brother.” 

Damon’s surprise must’ve been obvious, because Harper rolls her eyes and walks around the bar to pull the guy into a hug. 

William Bradshaw. 

That’s why he looked familiar. Damon had never seen the kid in person, just heard the name tossed around by Daddy Warbucks—his prodigy, he used to brag. Neil Bradshaw tried his hardest to shift the spotlight to his son, a clean-cut distraction from the rebellious, illegitimate daughter he pretended didn’t exist.

Tyler raises a brow at Harper. “Harper?”

She nods back. “Tyler.”

“What the hell, Harp!” Will laughs, shoving her shoulders playfully. “You never told me you were back in Mystic Falls!”

“And you never told me you were the starting shooting guard at Duke,” Harper replies, pushing him right back. 

Will grins, throwing an arm around Tyler’s shoulders. “I came back for Homecoming, obviously. Big alumni thing, plus Coach invited me to come do some outreach BS for the high school team.”

Harper snorts, already stepping back behind the bar. She grabs a rag and starts wiping down the counter, half-listening as she reaches for a bottle to pour a drink for Damon.

Will leans against the bar, watching her work. “Figured I’d swing by and try my luck here. Didn’t think I’d find you slinging drinks in Mystic Falls, though.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Harper mutters, keeping her eyes on the glass as she fills it.

“Seriously though,” Will continues, unfazed, “I heard about Vicki. I’m really sorry, Harp–” he cuts himself off, casting a glance at Tyler.

Harper’s hand pauses mid-wipe, her jaw tightening for a split second before she forces a shrug. 

“Yeah, well. Life happens.” She turns to pour a drink for a customer without looking at him. Trying to steer the conversation away, she adds, “You know Mom came by this morning.” 

Will blinks. “She did?”

“Said you’re throwing your life away.”

Damon’s gaze flicks between them, sizing up the golden boy. Will looked like a damn scholarship ad—bright-eyed, straight teeth, athletic build. From the looks of it, he seems to be doing just fine in life. 

“Personally,” Damon cuts in, swirling his drink lazily, “I think a little party never hurt nobody.”

Will grins. “See, he gets it!” 

Harper shoots Damon an exasperated look. “Stay out of this Damon.” She wipes down the bar with more force than necessary. “Mom’s worried. And so is Dad.” 

Will scoffs, trying to sound casual. “It’s not that big of a deal. I’ll just retake the classes I failed.” 

Harper stops scrubbing and turns to him, brows drawn tight. “Some people would kill to be in your shoes, Will. Don’t screw this up.” 

Will looks properly chastised. “I’m sorry, Harp. I didn’t mean it like that. Look, I could always talk to Dad, maybe he could help you out–” 

She cuts him off with a wave of her hand. “I’m saving up myself. Dad doesn’t give handouts.” 

When he doesn’t respond, Harper goes on, her voicing taking on a teasing edge.

“Only party on weekends. Nothing harder than alcohol and weed.” 

Will groans. “Ugh, Harper.”

“And always wear a rubber.” 

He physically recoils, causing Damon to let out a low chuckle behind his glass. 

“Gross, bro! I am not talking about this with my big sis.”

“Will.” Harper gives him a pointed look. 

“OK. Yes ma’am.” He sighs, mock-saluting. 

Damon watches the whole ordeal, flabbergasted. Harper? Talking about saving up for college? That threw him. He’d pegged her as a new-age groupie—burn the system, eat the rich, college is a scam. The kind of girl who’d sooner set a textbook on fire than attend a lecture. But apparently, he didn’t know her half as well as he thought.

Across the bar, the rest of the frat-boy horde calls Will over, hollering for him to rejoin the group.

Will looks back at Harper. “Look, I gotta go, but I’ll see you at the Homecoming party tomorrow?” 

“Yeah, I’ll be there.” Harper gives him a soft smile. 

Will turns to leave, then hesitates. “And Harper?” 

She looks up. “Hm?” 

“I’m glad you’re back.” 

Harper shifts at that, discomfort flickering behind her eyes. She gives a small, tight smile and nods.

By the time the boys file out, Harper lets out a deep breath, shoulders sagging and letting the tension go.

“I need a smoke,” she mutters, tossing the bar towel onto the counter. She catches Matt’s eye across the room and flashed him a quick "T" with her hands.

Damon watches her go through the back, throwing a black hoodie over her shoulders before exiting. He has two options: walk away now and never think about her naked again (not gonna happen), or follow her out there and shoot his shot (much more his style). 

He chooses the latter.

Tossing a few bills on the bar, he slips through the crowd with a half-formed plan swirling in his head. He’d test the waters—see if she was into him. Use her, make Elena jealous, then move on. Simple. She’s hot, a little snarky, but that would prove useful in bed. Just a distraction, he told himself again. That’s all this was. 

The back door creaks open, and the cool evening air slaps him in the face. Harper was leaning against the brick wall, back to him, lighting a cigarette. 

Good. He needed a second. 

No reason to be nervous—she was just a quick fuck, nothing more. 

He steps forward, letting his boots drag purposefully across the pavement.

Harper doesn’t turn around. “Can’t scare me again, Matt-”

She doesn’t get the chance to finish. 

In a flash, Damon spins and pins her against the wall, one hand gripping her wrist, the other pressed flat against the bricks beside her head. Her cigarette falls to the ground, forgotten. She lets out a muffled yelp, eyes wide and wild as she realizes who it was. 

Harper shoves at his chest, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. “Damon?!” 

He doesn’t budge, just smirks down at her. “College, huh? I always had a thing for sorority girls.” 

She stares at him, stunned. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“I’m having fun,” he says smoothly, leaning in just enough to invade her space. 

“This is your idea of fun?” Harper scoffs, then lets out a humorless laugh. “I’m not a game, Damon.”

“You’re telling me you don’t like the attention?” His voice drops lower as he slowly traces a line across her collarbone with his fingers, goosebumps rising in his wake. 

Her breath hitches, and the pulse in her neck jumps, fast and loud. He could hear it thudding beneath her skin. Tempting. The scent of her blood hung in the air, rich and sweet. Damon’s eyes darken slightly, a flicker of hunger curling in his chest.

When he looks up to meet her gaze, she’s staring straight at him—wide-eyed, like a deer caught in headlights. Her hazel eyes are blown, pupils dilated. Fear. That’s all he sees. His smirk vanishes. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

New plan. Back away slowly– 

But before he can move, Harper drives her knee straight into his groin.

Pain explodes in his gut, and he doubles over, clutching himself, breathless. 

A low groan slips out. If he couldn’t have kids before, he definitely couldn’t now.

“Don’t fucking touch me without permission.” Harper spits, her voice trembling as she hovers over him.

Rebekah comes barreling around the corner, mid-sentence.

“Damon! Your brother is being mean—oh."

She skids to a halt, blinking at the sight of Damon doubled over, clutching his jewels, and Harper standing above him, seething.  

Rebekah bursts out laughing, the sound ringing through the alley.

“Nicely done!” she smirks, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “It’s about time someone taught him a lesson.”

​​She crosses her arms, surveying the scene with approval. “You are going to be my new best friend. You must come to Homecoming with me!” 

Harper shakes her head, breathless, still processing what just happened. “You want me to what ?” 

Rebekah’s smile widens. “I’ve always wanted to do a pregame! You’re coming to the Salvatore house tomorrow to get ready—I won’t take no for an answer.” 

Rebekah squeals excitedly, not even giving Harper a chance to respond. In one swift motion, she grabs Damon by the jacket and hauls him off the ground, dragging him toward the parking lot. 

Damon tries to shoot Harper an apologetic glance, but she deliberately looks away, refusing to meet his eyes. 

Notes:

I hope it's clear to everyone that Harper's biological dad isn't Neil, and that Will is his actual child (Lily is the mother to both). Anyways I hope you liked this chapter and it's setup for the next one which will be the Homecoming episode. Like I said before, some details deviate from the plot, but I'll try following it as closely as possible. Stay tuned for next chapter, because Klaus comes in to the picture. ;)

Lots of Love,
-Bunzie <3

Chapter 7: Homecoming

Summary:

Harper joins Rebekah in pregaming for the Homecoming party, but only one of them makes it to the dance. When Damon’s plan with Mikael takes an unexpected turn, Harper finds herself caught in the crossfire of an ancient family feud.

Notes:

Hey everyone, I'm back! I'm sorry for the super late update, but hopefully this long chapter will make up for it. I finished exams, then went on vacation, and am now starting summer school and work full-time. Updates may be a bit slower, but I'll aim for one a week. If there are any formatting or grammatical errors, I usually go back and fix them a bit later. It's just that sometimes the formatting gets messed up when I move it from my google doc to here. Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

Cheers!

Damon swirls the bourbon in his glass, half-listening to Stefan ramble about his time with Klaus. After seeing Harper’s terrified face earlier that evening, he figured a little brotherly bonding might do some good. No Elena. No Harper. Just the two of them, like old times—minus the homicidal bloodlust. 

After Rebekah had dragged him home, he’d convinced Stefan into hitting up a bar just outside of town. Putting distance between himself and Mystic Falls felt smart. Putting distance between himself and Harper felt necessary. He told himself it was damage control, not guilt—not that he felt guilty. Not really. So what if things had gone too far? She was being dramatic. 

Still, his pride stung almost as much as the kick. He was sure that she was interested in him. But would he apologize? Please. He was Damon Salvatore. He didn’t do sorry.

Stefan is feeding from the bartender, blood trickling down his chin. Damon watches with mild disgust. He was hoping that if Stefan indulged a little, maybe—just maybe—that flicker of humanity still buried deep would kick in.

He’s about to make a joke about table manners when the bar door creaks open.

A man steps inside—tall, broad, dressed in a pristine suit. Cold blue eyes cut through the dim light.

Mikael. 

“Shit,” Damon mutters, straightening. “Looks like the party’s starting early.”

Everything after that is a blur. One second he’s joking about Stefan’s messy eating, the next he’s pinned to the bar, Mikael’s hand shoved halfway into his chest, fingers wrapped around his heart.

Shockingly, Stefan steps in—promising Mikael they’ll lure Klaus back to Mystic Falls.

He hesitates at first, letting the thought of Damon dying sink in, but luckily a glimmer of humanity pulled through at the last second.

When Mikael finally leaves, Damon slams back another drink, gasping for air and groaning.

It was going to be one of those nights.

***

Mikael now lay face-up on the living room rug, dagger lodged in his chest, looking more like a discarded prop than the monster who had nearly ripped Damon’s heart out an hour ago. The plan had worked—so far. 

Stefan had made the call to Klaus, voice cool and measured, informing him that Mikael had been daggered. Technically not a lie... just leaving out the fact that he wouldn’t stay that way for long. 

When Stefan hangs up, Elena stops pacing by the windows, her arms crossed tightly. She stares at him, waiting.

“He’s going to call Rebekah tomorrow to confirm,” Stefan says. “But he sounded convinced.” 

“Now, was that easy or what?” Damon drawls, flashing a cocky grin at both of them.

Elena doesn’t bother with a retort. She just kneels down and yanks the dagger from Mikael’s chest with a wet, sickening sound.

“Let’s just get this over with,” she mutters.

***

Damon and Elena move around his room, prepping for battle. Grenades filled with wolfsbane in his sink, along with an impressive collection of wooden stakes lined up neatly across the bed. Damon had been in a foul mood since last night—the aftermath of the Harper situation still gnawing at him—and Elena could tell. She keeps shooting him conspiring glances, growing more agitated every time he dodges her questions about his backup plan for tonight. 

“But—” she starts to protest again, only to be cut off when Damon presses a finger to his lips, silencing her as footsteps echo down the hallway.

Stefan rounds the corner. “I need to borrow a tie.”

“You have your own ties.” Damon responds without looking up from the sink. 

“I’m 162 years old and I’m going to a homecoming dance. I need better ties,” Stefan replies dryly.

“You could always not go.” Elena shoots back, arms crossed. 

Damon smirks at her sass. Moments like these reminded him of why he liked her—the fire, the attitude. And just like that, without warning, his mind flickers to someone else—someone he’d managed to hurt far worse than he intended to the night before. 

“I’m compelled to protect you,” Stefan says flatly, pulling him back to the moment. “And if I look at your track record at high school dances, it’s pretty tragic. My luck, you’ll go and get yourself killed by the homecoming queen.” 

Before anyone can answer, the doorbell rings from downstairs.

“Oh! I wonder who that could be,” Stefan says, sauntering toward the door and swiping a tie from the closet as he goes. 

“I didn’t know we were expecting visitors,” Elena says, throwing a skeptical glance Damon’s way. 

“That would be Harper,” Damon sighs, plucking the grenade out of Elena’s hands before she could accidentally blow them both up.

“And you’re not going to greet her?” Elena presses, brow raised.

“I don’t think she’s dying to see my face right now.”

“What did you do?” she asks, arms folding defensively. 

Damon realizes he could play into this. 

“Shot my shot. Hit her with the iconic smolder.” He smirks down at her, waiting for a reaction. 

Elena frowns, a flicker of something—hurt, maybe even jealousy—passing over her face before she schools her expression.

“And I’m guessing she wasn’t impressed?” Elena fires back, a little too fast. 

“You wound me,” Damon says, clutching his heart dramatically. “And no, she didn’t exactly say no —she used more... physical means of rejection.”

Elena’s mouth tightens. “So that means you’ll leave her alone, right?” 

Damon just smirks. “Where’s the fun in that? She didn’t say no—just made things interesting. It’s all about the chase, Elena.”

For a second, something flickers across Elena’s face. She looks away, busying herself with the stakes lined up on the bed, but not fast enough for Damon to miss it.

—

Harper stands at the door of the Salvatore boarding house, tequila bottle in hand, staring at the polished wood. She’d reluctantly dragged herself here, thinking that if she bailed on Rebekah, the blonde would probably throw a tantrum and make Harper’s life a living hell. And Harper, well... she didn’t need any more enemies right now. Not when she was already short on allies.

She rings the doorbell. Please don’t be Damon. Please don’t be Damon. 

To her surprise, it isn’t Damon or Rebekah who answers the door. It’s a guy she hasn’t seen before.

“Hi there.” He smiles—polite, almost too polite—but his eyes gave him away. They're cold, sharp.

“Uh, hi. Rebekah invited me over. I’m not sure…” Harper trails off, unsure if she was supposed to explain herself or just follow along.

“You must be Harper,” he interrupts smoothly, his voice low and calm. “I’ve heard a lot of great things about you.” His words are syrupy, sweet—but the look in his eyes is anything but kind. He motions for her to come in, his head tilting in a way that makes it feel more condescending than welcoming. “Please, come in.”

Harper hesitates, her instincts already telling her something isn't right, but the last thing she wants to do is look like she's scared. So, she steps inside, keeping her guard up. “And you are…?” 

“Stefan Salvatore,” the man replies smoothly, his gaze lingering a moment longer than necessary. “I’m sure my brother’s mentioned me. After all, he’s been pinning after you and I know it’s just to make my girlfriend jealous.” 

Harper’s eyebrows shoot skyward. He’s the brother? And he knows his brother’s after his girlfriend? What the actual fuck is wrong with this family? She lets out a nervous laugh, unsure of how to respond to such a loaded statement.

Stefan watches her closely, his eyes sharp, measuring. He was handsome—she’d give him that—she could see the family resemblance. Both he and Damon had that confident, cocky vibe, like they owned the room. But there was something different about Stefan. He was colder, his tone more detached and jaded, while Damon’s playful snark always carried a hint of warmth. 

Before she can process it all, the sound of footsteps echoes down the hall, and a blonde storms into view, glaring daggers at Stefan.

“If you touch her, Stefan, I’ll rip your head off!” Rebekah screeches, carrying all the authority of a queen ready to go to war. She storms up to the front door, her eyes locked on Stefan in a way that made it clear she wasn’t joking.

“And why would you care what I do with her?” Stefan asks, clearly unimpressed. 

“This is my new best friend, um—” Rebekah starts confidently, but falters, clearly realizing she doesn’t even know Harper’s name. 

Harper whispers her name to her. 

“Harper! Yes, lovely Harper,” Rebekah recovers quickly, shooting Stefan a haughty look. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we have girl things to do.”

She grabs Harper by the arm, dragging her down the hall toward her room without giving Stefan a second glance.

“Wow, Rebekah, I didn’t think you had it in you to make friends,” Stefan calls after them, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “We’ll see how long this one lasts.”

Rebekah just scoffs and gives Stefan a pointed look, sending daggers with her eyes, but Harper sees the hurt lingering beneath. 

Harper frowns slightly. Stefan’s rudeness catches her off guard. Sure, Rebekah was pushy—maybe even a little bossy—but it didn’t feel malicious. She just seemed like someone who desperately wanted to have fun. Wanted to be liked.

“So, how do you know Stefan and Damon?” Harper blurts, her curiosity getting the best of her.

“I used to date the youngest,” Rebekah says breezily. “He was much more fun back then." She pauses, then raises her voice, clearly hoping Stefan can hear: "And better looking!”

Harper snorts. “Then why are you living here?” 

“My poor excuse of a brother left me here to fend for myself,” Rebekah says with a dramatic sigh. “You’ll have the pleasure of meeting him tonight.” 

As they climb the grand staircase, Harper glances around, taking it all in. The place was massive—even more impressive than her quick glimpse in the foyer with Damon that day they went to Charlotte. Antique benches lined the halls, along with gilded mirrors and old oil paintings. The whole house practically dripped with Victorian history. 

When they step into Rebekah’s room, Harper’s eyes barely have time to adjust before Rebekah’s phone starts buzzing in her hand.

“Speak of the devil,” Rebekah mutters, rolling her eyes before answering. “Hello, Nik,” she says, sounding thoroughly annoyed. 

Harper steps further into the room, wide-eyed. She sets the bottle of tequila down on the vanity, her gaze drifting over the abundance of makeup, perfumes, and sparkling jewelry scattered across its surface.

She wasn’t good at makeup. Never had the time or money to practice, but secretly, she always admired the girls who were.

Her mind flashes back to when she was little, sneaking into her mother's bathroom and playing with her old powders and lipsticks. She came out looking like a clown, and though her mother had scolded her, Harper still remembered how fun it was—pretending to be someone else, even just for a moment. 

Drifting around the room, she takes in the massive four-poster bed at the center, the silky curtains tied back neatly. It was all so grand, so different from her life now.

Wandering over to a window, Harper pulls back the curtain slightly—and gasps. The view stretched out forever, the afternoon sun setting low across the trees, casting everything in gold.

"Wow," she breathes, a longing pulling deep in her chest. 

The view of the woods was breathtaking. Harper had never seen Mystic Falls like this before—so quiet, so serene. From up here, the woods looked endless. Like Mystic Falls wasn’t the cardboard box she’d spent her whole life trying to claw her way out of, desperate like a caged animal. 

In her stupor, she doesn’t notice Rebekah stepping up beside her, watching her with a tilted head, an unreadable look softening her usual sharpness.

From the phone speaker, a man’s voice cuts through the stillness—thick English accent, smooth and dangerous.

“Rebekah, love, who’s there with you?”  

“Don’t be nosy, Nik,” Rebekah sighs dramatically. “She’s my new best friend.”

“You sound rather fond of her already,” the man says smoothly, something sharper curling around the edges of his tone now. “You know how reckless you can be when you get attached, Rebekah.”

There’s a pause—long enough that Harper can feel the weight of it. ‘Nik’ says something through the phone that Harper can’t quite catch. Something about a ‘Mikael’? Maybe the Mikael from Charlotte? 

Rebekah stiffens, looking suddenly out the window as if trying to anchor herself. "It's true what Stefan said last night," she says tightly, voice flatter now. "He's finally out of our lives. For good." 

Harper watches her, thrown by the shift. Who was she talking about? And why did she sound like she was lying?

Rebekah spins on her heel and strides to the closet, pulling out the same red dress Harper had picked at the bar. "I miss you," she says, softer now, vulnerability bleeding through her careful mask. "I'm miserable here."  

The line clicks dead, and Rebekah tosses her phone onto the bed with a thud. Harper lingers near the window, feeling like she just witnessed something she wasn’t supposed to.

Warily, Harper steps away from the window and toward the vanity. She scoops up the tequila bottle, the glass cold in her hand, before making her way to where Rebekah stands, staring almost mournfully at the red dress draped across her arms. 

Harper lifts the bottle slightly, offering a crooked smile. "Shots?" she says, her voice light, teasing—trying to cut through the heavy air that had settled between them.

***

Apparently, a few shots and some Lady Gaga blaring through a speaker were all it took to bring Rebekah back to her usual bad bitch energy.

Harper was adjusting the royal blue strapless mini dress Rebekah had forced her into. She had nearly thrown up when Harper first suggested wearing her plain black skirt and tank top. When Harper hesitated after spotting the designer label, Rebekah had just waved her off, declaring it “last season anyway.”

Despite it being way out of her price range, the dress was gorgeous. It clung perfectly to Harper’s frame, ruched in all the right places, making her look fuller in all the best ways.

The scar Switch left on her shoulder was on full display, but Harper didn’t seem to mind. If anything, the dress drew more attention to the tattoo that adorned her other shoulder instead.

She had gotten it the year she graduated with Vicki—delicate black ink winding across her shoulder and collarbone, forming a cascade of three tiger lilies entangled in swirling vinework. Originally, there had only been two flowers—one for her, and one for Vicki. But after meeting Jackie, she added a third.

“I love this Gaga Lady!” Rebekah exclaimed, shaking her hips wildly to Poker Face.

Rebekah was… a little odd, Harper decided, but in a fun way. She had the sense that Rebekah had been raised pretty conservatively—especially considering she didn’t seem to recognize a single current artist. Still, after a couple drinks and some questionable dance moves, Harper was surprised by how easy it was to laugh with her.

Rebekah flops dramatically onto the edge of the bed, motioning Harper over with a perfectly manicured finger. “Come here. Let’s fix that horrid eyeliner of yours.”

Harper snorts, taking another small sip of tequila before setting the bottle down and making her way over. She sat cross-legged in front of Rebekah on the bed, the hem of the blue dress riding dangerously high on her thighs.

“You know, the insults aren’t needed to get me to listen.” Harper teases, tossing her hair back.

Rebekah only smirked, already rummaging through her vanity. “It’s not an insult if it’s true. Trust me, darling—you’re gorgeous. I’m just going to accentuate your best features.”

Harper rolls her eyes, but deep down, the compliment warmed her in a way she wasn’t used to. Especially coming from someone like Rebekah—someone who could easily make other girls feel small if she wanted to. 

As Rebekah worked, putting makeup on and curling Harper’s hair with an effortless grace, the conversation flowed easily.

Harper learns that Rebekah had grown up traveling all over the world, trapped under the thumb of an overbearing family and endless expectations. Mystic Falls, she complained, was like being locked in a dusty museum after living in glittering palaces. In return, Harper shares a little about her own life—the run-down apartments, the jobs that barely paid enough to keep the lights on, and her ragtag crew that felt more like family than blood ever had. It was easy, Harper realized—far too easy—to be friends with Rebekah. There was something about her that made you want to tell her things, to let your guard down, even if you knew you shouldn’t. Maybe it was because beneath all the glamour and sharp edges, Rebekah was just a lonely girl too.

Rebekah brushes powder across Harper’s cheeks with focused precision. 

“So,” Harper says slyly, arching a brow as Rebekah steps back to admire her handiwork, “who’s your date tonight?”

Rebekah scoffs, tossing a tube of lipstick onto the vanity. “Please. As if there’s anyone in this godforsaken town actually worthy of me.”

“Oh, come on,” Harper teases. “Don’t tell me you’re planning on taking me.”

“I asked Matt,” Rebekah blurts, cutting her off.

“Harper’s eyes widened, a slow grin spreading across her face. “You’re into Matt?”

“No, of course not. We’re just going as friends,” Rebekah huffs, a little too quickly. “Besides, he’s like… way younger than me.”

Harper laughs, shaking her head. “You know you’re literally the same age, right?.”

Rebekah gives her a withering look but says nothing.

“I’ll hype you up tonight—be your wingman,” Harper offers with a wink.

Rebekah hesitates, the sharp edge of her usual attitude softening. “Really? You’d do that for me?”

“Yeah, why not? Matty could use a little romance—he’s been hung up on Elena for way too long.”

Rebekah rolls her eyes at that, but there’s a small, hopeful smile tugging at her lips.

Ever since they were kids, Matt had been hopelessly in love with Elena. At first, Harper thought it was cute—sweet, even—but she always knew Matt felt it more deeply than Elena ever did. She and Vicki used to tease him about it, but underneath the jokes, it hurt to watch. Matt was the kind of person who would give everything to someone who’d never give the same in return. No one should beg for the love they deserve, and certainly not Matt. 

“And,” Harper adds with a grin, “you two would look good together.” 

Rebekah blinks at her, surprise flickering across her face. For a second, she looks like she didn’t quite know what to say. Harper figured she probably wasn’t used to this—someone seeing something good in her, without expecting anything in return. She must not have many friends. Matt is kind. Steady. If there was anyone Harper would trust to be good to Rebekah, it was him.

There was a moment of quiet between them—comfortable, a little vulnerable—before Rebekah moved toward the mirror again, smoothing her dress down at the hips.

She hesitates, then speaks softly, eyes fixed on her reflection. “Embarrassing truth…this is my first high school dance.”

Harper looks at her through the mirror. For all of Rebekah’s bravado, there was something deeply tender beneath it. She can’t help but smile at her. 

“There’s no need to worry,” Harper says, bumping her shoulder playfully. “It’ll be fun. Matt’ll be drooling the second he sees you.” 

Rebekah lets out a nervous laugh, fiddling with a loose curl. “I just don’t want anyone to ruin it for me. Not my brother, not the bloody Salvatores, and definitely not Caroline, who keeps spreading lies about me to Matt.” 

Harper gives her a pointed look. “Just relax. Trust me.” She arches her brow. “If I worried about what every bitch says about me, I’d never leave the house.” 

That earned a real laugh—loud and free—as Rebekah met Harper’s eyes in the mirror. The tension seemed to melt off her shoulders. 

“I’m just gonna run to the bathroom real quick. Then we’ll wait for Matt.” Harper says, giving Rebekah’s hand a quick squeeze before heading for the door.

As she walks out the door, she nearly collides with someone. 

“Oh—Elena. I didn’t know you were here,” Harper says, blinking in surprise.

“Hey, Harper. You look… great.” Elena gives her a once-over, clearly taken aback to see her in anything other than a baggy hoodie and jeans. “I’m just dropping off Rebekah’s necklace.” She offers a nervous smile, her eyes darting briefly toward Rebekah’s room.

“Oh. Cool,” Harper says with a nod, before continuing toward the bathroom. 

When she steps out a few minutes later and turns the corner, she smacks face-first into a wall.

No—not a wall. A person . 

A familiar smirk is already forming on the lips above her. Damon Salvatore stands in front of her, all smug charm and razor-sharp cheekbones.

Harper looks up, unimpressed. “I’m not in the mood, Damon.” 

She moves to walk past him, but hears his footsteps closely behind.

“Look, I made a mistake,” he says, the usual arrogance in his voice laced with something that almost sounds like regret. 

His strides are longer than hers, so he easily steps ahead, blocking her path again.

“Hm… at least you’re self-aware,” Harper mutters, sarcasm sharp as she tries to sidestep him. 

But he mirrors her movement, staying in her way. “Come on, what do you want? An apology?” 

She pauses, eyes narrowing as they meet his. “Actually? I don’t want anything from you.” Her voice drops, steady and cold. “An apology won’t change that.” 

Damon stares at her, momentarily stunned. The look in his eyes shifts—something hard and cold settles in. It’s as if all emotion is wiped from his face, the blue of his eyes suddenly glacial.

“Fine,” he says flatly, the corner of his mouth lifting in a bitter smile. 

Harper doesn’t respond. He hurt her. He touched her without permission. And for that, there was no clever remark or half-hearted apology that could undo it. She steps around him and walks back to Rebekah’s room without a second glance. 

When Harper returns, her shoulders still tight with tension, she’s stopped in her tracks by Elena slipping out of the room, looking vaguely disheveled. She shuts the door behind her with a quick, almost guilty motion before glancing up.

“Hey,” Elena says, a little too casually. “Rebekah’s not feeling well. She’s gonna skip the dance.”

Harper frowns. “That’s weird—she was fine five minutes ago.” 

“She probably drank too much,” Elena replies, shrugging. But Harper catches the slight lift of her brows, the way her eyes flicker—calculating. Dismissive.

They barely drank. Rebekah had maybe three shots, and Harper had been keeping an eye on her the whole time. If anything, Rebekah had been glowing. Happy. Definitely not sick.

Harper’s expression hardens. “I should probably go check up on her.” 

Elena jolts, suddenly pressing her back against the door. “No! Uh…” she forces a laugh, way too loud. “Trust me—you don’t wanna do that. Rebekah’s a nightmare when she’s sick.” 

Harper raises a brow, deadpan. Elena’s trying to play it off, but her act is paper thin—and Harper can feel that something's wrong. Really wrong. 

Before she can argue back, Damon steps up behind her, voice low and cool. “I think you should go, Harper. Party’s about to start.” 

His words are polite, but his tone is anything but. There’s an edge there—sharp and dismissive. His eyes don’t even try to hide the chill.

Harper looks between Elena and Damon, her stomach tightening. 

Of course she wasn’t welcome here. Not really. Maybe Rebekah wasn’t sick. Maybe she just realized Harper wasn’t worth the effort. Maybe this whole night had been a pity project—and Harper had fallen for it like an idiot. 

But maybe she had pushed too hard? Maybe Rebekah hadn’t even wanted to drink. It could’ve been her first time, and Harper had forced it on her without thinking. Still... Rebekah had seemed excited.

So why this? 

What was the point of all of it—getting dressed up, sharing secrets, laughing and dancing—if it was just going to end with her walking away, alone? Was it all some sick joke? 

She swallows the lump in her throat, jaw tight. 

With a sigh, she turns on her heel and heads downstairs. Over her shoulder, she mutters, “Tell her I hope she feels better.” 

And then she’s gone.

***

The cold air bites at her arms as Harper steps outside, the distant laughter and thrum of music pulling her down the winding sidewalk. Her heels click against the pavement, steady despite the way her stomach twists. She doesn’t even want to go to this party anymore—but she promised Will, and she figures she owes her mom the favor of looking out for him tonight.

The Lockwood mansion glows at the end of the street, lights spilling out onto the lawn.

And—is that a band? In the backyard? Harper blinks. Hundreds of people swarm the property—strangers, definitely not students or alumni. The bass is already rumbling through the ground beneath her feet. 

Inside, the house is packed. Glittering dresses, clouds of cologne, red Solo cups in manicured hands. Harper weaves through the crowd, eyes scanning for a drink. If she’s going to suffer through this, she might as well be plastered while doing it. She reaches a table piled with bottles and punch bowls, grabs a Solo cup, and fills it with vodka and whatever fruity punch is closest. 

She takes a sip, letting the burn of the alcohol numb her throat. For a moment, she closes her eyes—but the memories rush in too fast. Her aunt. The crew. Her whole childhood.

All of it crashes down on her like a wave. Too much, too fast. A chill creeps up her spine. She swears she can feel eyes on her. Faces blur around the room.

Is this a panic attack?

Her gaze snaps to the mantle. A fine line of dust. She wishes it were cocaine.

She blinks hard, scanning the crowd—And spots Matt stepping through the front door. With Elena. 

Harper freezes. Is that why Rebekah didn’t show? Did Elena steal her date? How could Matt do that? Caroline storms up to them like a bullet. Elena throws Matt a conspiratorial glance.

Before he can even make it to the drink table, Harper’s gone. 

“I can’t deal with this right now,” she mutters, turning sharply. She digs for a pack of cigarettes from her purse and heads for the door. One smoke. Chill the fuck out. Maybe even find Will in the sea of teenagers while she’s at it.

Stepping into the backyard, Harper feels the breath catch in her chest. The stage is massive. It towers above the crowd, lit up by lasers slicing through the night. A full band is performing like it’s a stadium show. Dozens—no, hundreds —of people are dancing in front of the stage, and Harper’s stunned. She didn’t even know Mystic Falls had this many people. There’s no way this was Carol Lockwood’s doing. Did she even know this was happening? Then, as if on cue, Tyler Lockwood appears beside her, catching her mid-gawk. 

“Did you do all of this?” she asks, eyes still fixed on the spectacle. 

“Actually, my buddy Klaus did,” Tyler says, scanning the crowd. “He’s calling it a wake.”

A wake?  

Harper blinks. She’s never heard of Klaus before. Must be new. A lot can change in two years. Finally, she pulls her eyes from the stage and turns to Tyler.

“I’m sorry about your dad,” Harper says, sincere for once. “Must’ve been tough.” 

Tyler looks at her, surprised. Harper’s never been one for niceties—especially with him. He was a dick, after all. 

“Thanks,” he says after a beat. “It’s been rough, but... life keeps going.” 

Harper pulls out a cigarette from her pack and offers him one. Tyler shakes his head. 

“He always liked you, you know?” Tyler says, eyes scanning the lawn. “Talked about you a lot. Said your hotheadedness reminded him of himself.” 

Harper shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. He was nice to me at Founder’s events.”

Everyone knew Tyler had a complicated relationship with his dad. The guy had expectations no kid could ever meet. Sensing the awkward weight between them, Harper lights up, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke off to the side.

“I wish Vicki was here,” she mutters.

Tyler gives her a sheepish look. “Yeah. Me too. I miss her.” 

Harper scoffs, shooting him a sharp glance. 

Before she can say anything snarky, Tyler speaks up again. “And I know you hate me—for how I treated her. Part of me hates myself for it, too. But I really do miss her.” 

Harper exhales, the smoke curling from her lips. She watches the distant crowd for a moment, then turns back to him. 

“You really were such a douchebag.” She smiles a little. A dry chuckle slips out, and Tyler laughs too. 

“Yeah. I was,” he admits with a sigh. 

Beside her, Harper feels him tense. She glances up just in time to see his gaze flick toward the crowd—then land on Caroline, who’s staring at him with barely concealed intent. His eyes snap back to Harper, surprised to find her watching him. There’s a flicker of something—guilt? panic?—and she swears a bead of sweat trails down his temple. 

“Sorry, I gotta go,” he blurts, and then he’s already moving—fast. 

“Wait—” she calls, reaching out instinctively. But it’s useless. He’s halfway across the lawn, moving like the ground beneath her feet is radioactive. She lets her hand fall, sighing, lips twisting in a small pout. Why did people always seem so uncomfortable around her? She knew she didn’t smell—Rebekah practically drowned her in that overpriced French perfume. Was Caroline pissed about him talking to her? Was it something she said? Kicking at the grass in frustration, Harper stubs her toe through the thin heel of her shoe. She swears under her breath and wiggles her toes, trying to walk off the sting. She’s still rolling out her ankle, head down, when she feels someone step up beside her. 

“Each cigarette cuts a day from your life,” a voice says—smooth, melodic, and distinctly English.

Harper jumps at the sound, startled. Her head snaps to the side, eyes wide. 

And then— wow .

He’s got the kind of blue eyes that don’t seem real—deeper than any she’s ever seen, like the sky before a storm. Blonde curls frame a face far too pretty to be lurking around Mystic Falls, and there’s a lazy, knowing smile on his full lips. He looks at her expectantly, like she’s the one who interrupted him . Still caught off guard, Harper blinks, cigarette dangling from her mouth. Then his words catch up to her. 

Her eyes narrow. 

Without breaking eye contact, she digs into her pack, pulls out a second cigarette, shoves it between her lips right beside the first, and lights it. Twin smokes now trail from her mouth and nose like some kind of nicotine-powered dragon. She knows she looks ridiculous, but who is he to judge? If he thought she’d fold under some poetic PSA, he clearly didn’t know who he was talking to. Will was the one who always nagged her about smoking. She didn’t need some posh stranger jumping in now. 

And cutting a day off her life? Good. Hell, make it three. In her world, the more, the merrier. 

His brows furrow slightly, a subtle crease forming between them indicating burgeoning curiosity. Then, with casual ease, he plucks one of the cigarettes from her mouth and slips it between his own lips. 

“I prefer cigars,” he says, the smoke curling between his words, “but I suppose this will do.”

Harper’s breath catches, the light brush of his fingers against her lips sending a flush straight to her cheeks. She watches him, unable to tear her gaze away from the trail of smoke slipping past his mouth. And when her eyes finally lift to meet his, she finds him watching her—grinning, the corner of his mouth tugged up in amusement at her blatant staring.

Her blush deepens. She turns away quickly, clearing her throat. 

“So,” she says, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, “are you a Mystic Falls alum? I’ve never seen you before.” 

Suddenly, she’s very aware of the dress she’s wearing—short, strapless, and a little too daring for how vulnerable she feels under his gaze. Her body was on display, and although she thought she looked good when leaving the house, it left little to the imagination. 

“Alumni?” he echoes with a smirk, the cigarette hanging lazily from his lips. “No, not quite. But I’ve been around Mystic Falls longer than most. I’m looking for my sister—and I believe you’re her new friend.” 

His confidence is unnerving. Alluring. Dangerous.

Recognition flashes in Harper’s eyes—the hair, the accent, the eyes. “You’re Nik?” she breathes, half to herself, like saying it aloud makes it real.

“Niklaus Mikaelson.” He extends a hand, palm up, with the kind of effortless grace that made it clear he expected her to take it. 

“Harper Bradshaw.” Cautiously, she places her hand in his—and to her shock, he lifts it to his lips and kisses it. The warmth of his mouth brushes her skin, sending a small spark up her arm. She pulls her hand back quickly, more rattled than she wants to admit. “How’d you know it was me?” she asks, trying to keep her tone even, but the curiosity leaks through.

“You’re wearing her dress,” Klaus says smoothly. “Only my dear sister would own Dolce & Gabbana in a town like this.” His tone sharpens, the charm slipping into something colder. “And since the Homecoming Queen is still among the living… I take it she isn’t here?”

The shift is immediate. The flirtation evaporates, replaced with something harder. Harper feels it like a slap. Embarrassment flushes hot in her chest, creeping up her neck. 

Who was she kidding? Of course she stuck out in this dress—like a child playing grown-up in someone else’s life. Her tattoos and scars were a dead give away that she didn’t belong. For a moment, she’d forgotten. For a moment, she'd gotten to be someone different—cool girl, fun girl, the kind you look at twice. She’d been playing dress-up, wearing the persona of someone who hadn’t done the horrible things she’d done. Someone who was easy to love. But the illusion was thin. And now it peeled away, leaving nothing but what she truly was: a raw wound in silk and lipstick.

She didn't feel beautiful anymore. She felt exposed.

Harper drops her cigarette, crushing it under her heel. She folds her arms tightly, grounding herself, then exhales.

“She couldn’t come. I’m sorry—I…” Her voice falters. She glances over the crowd, struggling to find the right words. “I brought drinks, and I think she had too much. I just… when I left the room, Elena wouldn’t let me back in, and—”

When her eyes meet his again, he’s watching her closely, those sharp blue eyes silently urging her on.

“She seemed fine,” Harper says quietly. “But I shouldn’t have left her. I didn’t mean for things to get out of control. I’ll return the dress. I’m sorry.”

She hopes the sincerity in her voice is enough—because Klaus’s expression is unreadable, cold and calculating. 

“Don’t worry, love.” His tone is smooth, but his jaw tenses as he flicks his cigarette away. “Rebekah can hold her alcohol. It seems she was stabbed with a sudden illness.” 

He scans the crowd, gaze dark.

“And as for the dress…” His eyes return to her, the smile returning—charming, but with teeth. “It looks far lovelier on you than it ever did her.” 

The compliment caught Harper off guard. She couldn’t read him—his smile was too calculated, his words too smooth. But one thing was clear: the air had shifted. The breeze turned cold, and a shiver raced down her arms.

Luckily, a group of people wearing Duke Blue Devils T-shirts caught her eye in the crowd. 

Will. 

“I’m sorry, I uh… I gotta go.” The words stumble out as her heart skips a beat. She turns her head, and that’s when she sees him—staring. Not at her eyes. At her neck. 

She swallows, and when she does, he licks his lips. Her pulse stutters in response, a flood of emotions swirling inside her. 

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Harper.” His voice is charming, but his eyes darken, a subtle shift that sends a shiver down her spine. “I can see why my sister admires you.” 

Harper feels a twinge of discomfort as she takes a step back, nodding and narrowing her eyes at him, trying to figure out what he’s after. He looked like an animal, his stare becoming predatorial—charming, but dangerous. A fox? No. A wolf. 

Shaking her head, she takes another step backward, making sure not to turn her back to him. Once she’s certain he won’t follow, she turns and walks away, the cold breeze stinging her skin. 

She'd been drinking most of the day. Alcohol, she reasons, explaining the way her pulse is still erratic, the heat that coils in her chest. Yes, it’s just the alcohol. And maybe the fact that it’s been almost a year since she’s been with anyone, but that thought? It stays buried deep inside, untouched.

As Harper walks up to Will, who’s chatting with his friends and beer in hand, a thought drifts through her mind. Nik. Klaus. Ni-Klaus. He’s Tyler’s friend. She whispers to herself, still lost in a daze.

“Harper! You’re here!” Will calls out, throwing his hands in the air before pulling her into a sloppy hug. He sways slightly, clearly having drunk more than he promised her he would.

Harper pulls herself out of her thoughts, looking up at Will with a smile. His hair is messy, and his cheeks are flushed. “How much did you drink?” 

Will just shrugs, grinning. “Do you really count?” 

Harper laughs, but the tension in her shoulders doesn’t quite ease. “Touché. But I’m older—so that’s your last one.” She points to the bottle in his hand, her voice shifting into big-sister seriousness. 

He raises both hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. Last one.” 

Harper gives him a warm smile, glad to see he’s still responsive despite the booze. “ I , on the other hand, am going to grab another.” She flashes a mischievous look. 

Will groans. “Classic double standard.”

“That’s me,” she calls over her shoulder with a wink, already walking back up the hill toward the house. But she doesn’t make it far.

The door slams open with a crash, and Matt comes barreling out, panic in his eyes and Caroline limp in his arms.

“Matt?” Harper’s pace quickens. “What happened? What’s wrong with her?”

Matt looks at her, wide-eyed. “Harper—you need to get out of here—” 

Before he can finish, a strong arm wraps around her from behind, jerking her backward. She barely gets out a gasp before a hand clamps over her mouth. 

“Hello,” a calm, menacing voice says beside her ear. “I’m Mikael.” 

Harper struggles, thrashing against him, but it’s useless. A sickly-sweet smell fills her nose as a cloth is pressed against her face. Panic surges. She kicks. Claws. And then—she’s moving. Dragged backward at a speed that makes her stomach lurch. Trees whip past. Matt’s figure vanishes in a blink, swallowed by the distance like a mirage. Her vision narrows to a pinpoint. 

And then—darkness.

***

Klaus was playing beer pong inside the Lockwood house, halfheartedly—and winning, obviously. The room buzzed with laughter and trashy music, but his ears were tuned elsewhere—waiting. A predator distracted by the scent of a deeper game. He had a plan. He always did. And he wouldn’t let a daggered sister ruin it.

The doppelgänger and her ever-loyal pet— Damon. They’d crossed a line this time, stabbing Rebekah in the back while she was vulnerable. They were cowards, and soon they’d face her wrath. 

But Klaus couldn’t get distracted. Not now. He was doing this for all of them—his blood, his family. Killing Mikael was the endgame, the last move on the board. The one that would bring them back together. Rebekah would forgive him eventually. She always did.

A whisper tickles his ear—Mindy, one of his more competent hybrids. “He’s here. Mikael.”

Klaus’s smirk doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Move everyone out back,” he says coolly, already turning toward the door. “I’m gonna have a little chat with my dad.” 

He excuses himself casually, sinking the last cup and downing his drink. Walking to the front door, he meets Mikael for the first time in years. And in his arms, slumped and barely conscious, is a girl Klaus hadn’t expected to see again so soon.

Little Bradshaw. 

Mikael stands behind her like a puppeteer, aged, cruel, and righteous as ever. The Originals' patriarch. And in front of him, the bait. Not the doppelgänger like he would have expected. 

Klaus tilts his head, confusion slicing through his rage like a blade. Why her?

A laugh nearly escapes him. This was their grand plan? Not Elena. Not Rebekah. But her— the girl he’d toyed with outside. The stray in Rebekah’s dress.

She meant nothing. 

His eyes narrow as he takes her in fully. Bound, gagged, and barely standing. But even through the haze, even through whatever drug or magic dulling her limbs, there it was—that spark. That same wild defiance she’d shown him earlier. 

Beautiful, he thought, almost absentmindedly. But not in the obvious way. Not like Caroline or the countless other lovely faces that blurred through his centuries. No, Harper was beautiful like war—scarred and defiant. Her pain was stitched into her scars, but so was her fury. 

“Hello, Niklaus,” Mikael says smoothly, one hand stroking Harper’s hair. 

Klaus’s jaw ticks. “Hello, Mikael.” His voice is calm, cool. Mocking. “Won’t you come in? Oh—” he adds, lips curling into a smirk, “that’s right. I forgot, you can’t.” 

Mikael chuckles, dark and hollow. “Or you could come outside if you want.” 

Klaus threatens him with his hybrids, who are now lined up on the front lawn behind Mikael. Harper, barely lucid, shifts slightly in Mikael’s arms, but Klaus isn’t looking at her anymore.

He was staring at him.

The man who raised him. The man who hunted him. The one monster in all of Klaus’s endless life who still had the power to make him feel like a child again.

It was absurd. He is the hybrid. The apex predator. He’d ripped out hearts, burned cities, conquered entire bloodlines. And yet... the sight of his father standing on that doorstep, self-righteous and unyielding, still made something primal twist in his gut. 

“The big, bad wolf,” Mikael sneers, eyes gleaming. “You haven’t changed. Still hiding behind your playthings.” 

When Mikael reveals he’s compelled all the hybrids, a cold coil of dread winds through Klaus’ gut. His hybrids—his army stand motionless. Eyes blank. Expressionless. Then Mikael grips Harper’s jaw, not enough to break it, but enough to make her flinch and whimper through the cloth gag. 

“Come out and face me, Niklaus,” Mikael growls, nodding toward Harper. “Or she dies.” 

Klaus swallows hard, fury rising like bile. For a flicker of a second, his eyes cut to Harper. 

“Go ahead,” Klaus says coldly. “Kill her. If you think she’s leverage over me, you’ve already lost.”

Mikael’s smile is thin, cruel. “Not over you, Niklaus. Over Rebekah. Let’s see how forgiving she’ll be when she finds out you killed her only friend—just like you did your mother.”

Klaus doesn’t move.

Mikael’s voice drops. “I see how you look at her, boy. You crave affection. That’s your pathetic weakness. And as long as I live, you will always be alone.” 

Klaus’s jaw tightens, his breath hitching as tears slip down his cheeks. His voice trembles, heavy with barely restrained rage.

“I’m calling your bluff,” he spits. He takes a slow step back, fists clenched at his sides. “Rebekah will forgive me. Go on, then. Kill her.” 

Mikael just watches him, that same infuriating calm.

“Do it!” Klaus shouts, voice cracking. “Kill her!” 

Without another word, he drives the dagger into Harper’s side. Harper’s eyes shoot open in Mikael’s grip, and the sound that leaves her is small—but it drives right through Klaus. His breath catches. His vision tunnels around the sight of her body slumping forward, blood soaking through the silk, before her body tumbles to the ground, bleeding out. 

Next thing he knows, Klaus hits the ground with a roar, the impact rattling his skull against the marble entryway. Pain explodes through his chest as Damon barrels into him from behind, the stake sinking deep. His limbs seize, his body locking up—but something’s wrong. His eyes roll down to the stake embedded in his chest—close, too close—but not quite. He missed the heart. 

“Harper!” Damon shouts, his voice cracking as he glances back over his shoulder, still pinning Klaus down with one hand on the hilt. “What did you do to her, you son of a—” 

Klaus doesn’t miss it—Damon’s eyes, wild with panic, flicking toward the girl. The fear, the desperation. He cares for the girl. That much is obvious now.

That moment of hesitation is all it takes. A blur crashes into Damon, knocking him clean off Klaus and driving him into the ground with a grunt. 

Stefan?

Klaus doesn’t waste time. He rolls, snatching the discarded white oak stake from the floor. In one smooth motion, he bolts through the door and doesn’t stop until it’s buried in Mikael’s chest. The scream tears through the night. Mikael ignites—body twisting, bones splintering as fire consumes him from the inside out. It’s over. Mikael is gone.

Klaus turns to Harper.

She’s crumpled where Mikael left her, her pulse whisper-soft in his ears. A threadbare beat—barely holding on. He crouches beside her, brushing blood-matted hair from her cheek. Her breath stutters, shallow. Biting into his wrist, he feeds her his blood, watching it pool against her soft lips.  

“There you go, little love,” he murmurs, low and gentle. He watches the wound at her side slowly begin to knit closed. He watches her a moment longer, then stands.

Back inside, Stefan is still holding Damon down. Damon’s eyes burn—half fury, half fear—as they flicker from Stefan to Harper. 

“What the hell did you do?” Damon grits out. 

“He’s earned his freedom.” Klaus says, releasing Stefan from his compulsion. 

A heartbeat later, Damon vanishes. And Harper is gone with him.

Notes:

I hope you liked the chapter! Firstly, I know that Damon is in the wrong here for pursuing Harper after what happened (no means no, verbal or not), but Damon is lowkey an ass for most of TVD and it's only until later that he gets some character development (which he will dw). Secondly, I don't actually think Matt and Rebekah would be good together, I'm just trying to build Harper's and Rebekah's relationship. Lastly, I hope Klaus' POV was okay, it's going to take a bit of time to get used to writing in his perspective. Ok, sorry for yapping. Stay tuned for the aftermath of Homecoming in the next chapter!

Lots of Love,
-Bunzie <3

Chapter 8: Killer Instincts

Summary:

Harper wakes in the Salvatore Boarding House, bruised and dazed, and leaves with no memory of the night. Damon, unusually gentle, drives her home—only to find her aunt sobbing on the couch, grief and secrets hanging in the air. Meanwhile, with his family stolen and Stefan missing, Klaus sets his sight on Harper, the perfect bait to bring his family back.

Notes:

TW: This chapter contains references of SA and SW. If these topics are distressing for you, consider skipping Harper's POV this chapter, which is between the first and second em dashes (—) marking a POV shift.

Hi y'all! I'm sorry it's been longer than a week, but alas, here is chapter 8.
Again, if there's any editing errors, I'll come back and fix it later, I just want to get this chapter out ASAP.

Enjoy!

Harper wakes with a jolt, her breathing sharp and uneven. Damon hears her heartbeat spike—a frantic rhythm that echoes across the silent room. She scrambles upright on the couch, eyes wide and wild, knees drawn to her chest as she curls into herself protectively.

After his failed attempt to kill Klaus, Damon had brought Harper back to his house, ignoring Elena’s desperate pleas for answers. He had gently placed Harper’s body on the couch, checking her stab wound to make sure it had truly closed. 

Klaus’ remorse had caught him off guard. He had healed her—for whatever reason. Damon couldn’t begin to understand it. But one thing was certain: Klaus’s interest in Harper was dangerous, and Damon felt a gnawing, unshakable need to protect her from him.

Elena had tried to calm Damon, reaching for him, grounding him—but his rage had boiled over. 

“We thought of everything, Elena!” he’d snapped. “Klaus having hybrids, Mikael turning on us. We brought in Katherine so you wouldn’t be in danger. We were ready for anything. But he took her ,” he’d said, his voice cracking as he pointed to Harper’s bloodied form on the couch.

Outrage overtook him. He’d hurled his whiskey glass into the fireplace, the sharp shatter echoing off the walls. 

“Hey. Damon—hey!” Elena had called out, grabbing his face in both hands. “Listen to me!”

At that moment, Harper had begun to stir.

“I need to make sure she’s okay,” he’d told Elena, gently removing her hands from his face. “I need you to leave.” 

Now, Harper is fully awake, her eyes locked on him with fear and confusion. She looks like a deer caught in headlights. The way she curls around herself, shrinking back, tells Damon everything he needs to know. She thinks he did something to her. 

“What happened? What did you do?” she demands, voice sharp with fear and fury. The accusation cuts deeper than a knife.

Damon raises his hands in slow surrender. “I didn’t do anything. I swear. I would never.” His voice is low, steady—but her narrowed eyes say she doesn’t believe him.

“Who was that man? He—he…” Harper falters, a sob escaping her throat. “He took me. He was so fast, and then he… he—” She stops, her eyes dropping to her side. The shock on her face is immediate when she sees the skin, whole and unbroken.

“You’re okay,” Damon says, his brows drawn tight. “You’re safe now.”

The fire returns to Harper’s eyes. “What. Happened.”

Damon doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he studies her face—the cuts, the dried blood, the pain swimming behind her hazel eyes. 

“Those earrings,” he says softly. “The lockets. Where did you get them?”

Harper’s expression darkens, clearly offended that he’d be asking about jewelry at a time like this. When Damon doesn’t explain, her confusion only deepens. “My mom,” she mutters, arms hugging her torso tighter. “She gave them to me when I was little. Said they were good luck charms. That I should never take them off. Why does it matter?”

“I need you to take them off”

She stares at him, her suspicion sharpening. “Why?”

“I know I don’t deserve your trust,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “But I need you to give me just a little.”

For a beat, she doesn’t move. But then—slowly, warily—Harper reaches up and unclasps the earrings. Damon exhales and cautiously lowers himself onto the couch beside her. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t run. That alone feels like a miracle. 

He could do it.

He could erase it all. What he did to her behind the Grill. Mikael. The blood. Her screams. Even meeting him. He could make her forget everything. 

But Damon is selfish, and he knows that if he wiped her memories clean now, he wouldn’t stay away. He couldn’t. He’d claw his way back into her life one way or another. She had a gravity to her. Magnetic. Unshakable. It crawled beneath his skin and stayed there. She was in his thoughts when he fed, when he fought, when he drank too much and tried not to care. And now… now, she was in his chest, lodged between guilt and longing. 

His hand moves toward her cheek, gentle despite her flinch. His fingers cradle her face like it might shatter to pieces.

“You’ll forget what happened tonight,” he says quietly, watching her eyes. “You drank too much. Blacked out.”

The words taste like ash in his mouth. 

She deserves to know, his mind whispers. But not now. 

Harper blinks herself out of the trance. She looks around the room, confusion lining her features. Her fingers twitch as she touches her dress, stiff with dried blood.

“Why am I…?” she murmurs, trailing off as her eyes widen. Only now does she register just how much of her is still soaked in red.

Damon moves quickly, voice calm. “You slipped in the crowd—cut yourself on some broken glass. I found you outside and brought you here to make sure you were ok.”

A lie. But a believable one. 

Before she can press further, he stands. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Harper hesitates, then rises slowly, still unsteady. She follows him wordlessly, eyes darting around the house, her eyes flicking to her stained hands, to the floor, to the shadows on the wall—anywhere but at him. Her mind’s clearly trying to connect dots that no longer exist. 

He leads her upstairs, the house quiet but humming with tension. In his bedroom, he opens a dresser drawer and pulls out a soft, worn black t-shirt—too big for her, but clean. 

“I’ll give you a minute,” he says, placing it on the bed before backing toward the door. But just before he steps out, her voice stops him.

“I’m choosing to believe you didn’t do anything to me while I was out,” she says, still not looking at him. “Because I need to. Because deep down, I don’t think you would.” 

Damon stiffens in the doorway, tension creeping up his spine. He doesn’t speak. He can’t. The guilt is a noose tightening around his throat.

“What I did at the Grill was stupid,” he says, voice low. “I do stupid things. I act without thinking. And I know there’s no apology in the world that encompasses all the reasons why I never should’ve hurt you.” 

He steps closer, his expression softening—genuine, unguarded.

“But I promise you,” he murmurs, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, “I would never do anything like that to you. Ever.” 

He pauses, letting the silence settle. And for once, there’s no smirk. No sarcasm to mask the truth. 

Her eyes—wide, searching—are bright with something he can’t quite name. She’s reading him, peeling back the layers with nothing but silence. Looking for the lie. Waiting to flinch. 

“Okay,” she says finally, her voice quiet. Steady. She meets his eyes and nods once. 

The sigh that leaves Damon’s mouth is pure relief. He hadn’t even realized he’d holding his breath until the word hit him like a lifeline. Okay. Not forgiveness. Not trust. But a start. He could work with that. He studies her face a moment longer, then nods once and turns toward the door.

And that’s when it hits him—how little he really knows Harper. He doesn’t know what she’s running from. What keeps her up at night. But he knows her laugh. He knows how she scratches her forearms when she’s nervous. He knows she only smokes Winston Blues, and that when she gets angry, she rips the filters off. He doesn’t know what this pull is—if it’s pity, or guilt, or something else entirely. If it’s even real, or just some twisted projection of himself. Maybe she reminds him of all the parts of him he tries to bury. Maybe she’s just a mirror held too close. But whatever it is, it’s enough to make him want to understand her. To really, truly know Harper Bradshaw. He wants to know what broke her. And maybe—selfishly—he wants to be the one who puts her back together. 

___

Harper stands there long after Damon leaves the room, the soft click of the door echoing behind him. Her hands tremble around the borrowed clothes, knuckles white from how tightly she grips the fabric.

She should feel safer now—not alone at a party, not blacked out and vulnerable—but the heaviness in her chest won’t lift. Her memory is a blank slate, wiped clean of something she knows should be there. That absence gnaws at her. And the worst part is, she doesn’t even know what to be afraid of.

She’s confused. Disoriented. There’s no pounding headache, no throbbing pain to explain away the night. Her skin is clear of cuts or bruises. Nothing to match the chaos Damon claims she stumbled through. And she doesn’t remember drinking that much. Her memories vanish right after she spoke to Will. After she spoke to him .

The image of the man flashes in her mind. She remembers his voice—low, dangerous. The way her thoughts seemed to go fuzzy the moment he looked at her. 

A thought creeps in—quiet, insidious. Harper swallows hard, shaking her head like she can shake the idea loose. But it lingers—because she’s felt this before. 

She’d been drugged before at a basement party in Richmond. One minute she was leaning against the wall, laughing at something one of Mickey’s cracked-out friends said. The next, Deek was carrying her out, her vision swimming, Jackie screaming at someone behind them. She doesn’t remember much—just flashes. A couch. A drink in her hand. A man’s breath too close to her neck. Then nothing. She woke up hours later in their shitty motel, her head in Jackie’s lap, her hair being stroked gently. When they told her what had happened, she’d thrown up. Rage and nausea, tangled and sharp. Apparently, Deek had found her half-conscious beside the guy who’d spiked her drink—and beat the hell out of him. Mickey, for once in his life, even apologized for bringing them there. That part had almost scared her more than anything. 

But even then—even then—she’d had glimpses. Shadows of memory. Smells. Sounds. The vague shape of what had been done to her that night. 

This was different. Blank. Like her brain had been wiped. Harper’s breath catches. No. Rebekah’s brother wouldn’t do that. He didn’t. She knows it—not just logically, but viscerally . Whatever else he did, he hadn’t touched her like that . She would know. Her body would remember.

Then it hits her—Rebekah. She’s probably in her room right now. And Harper? Covered in blood and dazed from too much alcohol. She doesn’t want Rebekah to see her like this. But worse—what if Rebekah had been there? The thought slices through her haze, sharp enough to jolt her into motion. She grabs the clothes Damon left and forces herself to dress.

She changes in silence, peeling off her ruined dress with trembling fingers, avoiding her reflection in the mirror. The blood on her skin has dried in sticky patches, but she doesn’t care. She tugs the black t-shirt over her head—it smells like bourbon and cedarwood. It’s too big, swallowing her frame, but it’s warm.

Harper steps out of the room and pauses—expecting to see Damon outside waiting for her. But the hallway is empty and still. She makes her way downstairs and finds Damon rifling through the bookshelves in the library, hunting for something. He looks up as she enters, his eyes briefly flicking to the oversized black shirt that falls just below her knees before locking onto hers. 

Harper shifts under his gaze, clearing her throat. “Uh… thanks for the shirt. I’m just gonna call a cab and head out.” 

Damon’s eyes narrow, a flicker of something like offense crossing his face. “What? No. I’m driving you.”

He grabs his leather jacket on the way to the door without waiting for a response. 

They slip out into the cool early morning air, the silence stretching between them as they walk to the car. The drive home is quiet, peaceful. Harper glances at the clock on the dash—5:33 a.m. Trudy should be home by now. Hopefully asleep.

Damon turns on the radio, tuning it to classic country—the same station Harper once mentioned, the one that played her mom’s favorite song, Southern Nights . He remembered . The soft hum of the car and the gentle music wrap around them, easing the tightness in her chest. For the first time since she woke up, she lets herself smile—a small, tentative thing.

After a moment, Damon breaks the silence. “Oh, I almost forgot.” 

Without taking his eyes off the road, his hand reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small pair of earrings.

“You’re gonna want these back.”

Harper takes them, confusion flickering across her face. “Thanks. I can’t even remember why I took them off.” 

Damon says nothing, just keeps his gaze on the road. A comfortable silence settles between them again as they pull into Aunt Trudy’s driveway. They sit there for a moment, neither looking at the other. 

“There was a man,” Harper says finally, her eyes fixed on the faded front door. “Rebekah’s brother.”

Damon stiffens, catching her words from the corner of her eye.

“Did he say anything to you?” he asks. 

“No, it’s just…” she hesitates, voice dropping uncertainly. “He gave me a weird vibe. At first, I thought he was flirting, but then…” Her voice trails off. “It was like he was some kind of animal. I swear his eyes had a golden hue." She laughs nervously, shaking her head. “I probably sound crazy. Forget I said anything.” 

Harper unlocks the door and is about to get out when Damon gently grabs her wrist, urging her to stay.

“Hey, you’re not crazy,” he says, softer than ever before. “At least, not that crazy.” 

Harper rolls her eyes and punches his arm, the tension melting away with his teasing. 

“Don’t worry about Klaus. I’ll make sure he stays away from you.” Damon’s tone shifts, serious again. 

“You know him?” Harper asks, curiosity piqued. 

“Not exactly a fan,” Damon admits with a sigh. “He took Stefan on a bender not long ago.” His jaw tightens before relaxing.

“Oh…” Harper drawls, remembering their earlier conversation. “Right. The drinking problem.” 

“Right.” Damon agrees, looking down. 

Harper gets out of the car, and to her surprise, Damon does too, walking with her to the front door. The lights are still on inside—not exactly a shock, since Trudy usually gets home early in the mornings. Damon, though, seems curious. He glances through the front window, like he’s trying to catch a glimpse inside. Harper’s heart jumps, and shame settles in, heavy and unwelcome. 

“Thanks for tonight,” she says quickly, trying to redirect his attention away from the house. “Definitely won’t be drinking again anytime soon.” She lets out a small, awkward laugh. 

Damon smirks down at her and leans in, that familiar glint in his eyes. “Goodnight, Kitty.” 

Harper’s cheeks go crimson, and she mentally curses herself for it. “Night, Jackass,” she fires back, trying to sound more confident than she feels.

Damon lingers for a moment longer, just watching her. Then he smiles—something softer—and turns back to his car.

Harper exhales the breath she didn’t know she was holding and slips inside. The door closes behind her with a soft click.

From the living room, she hears it—soft, muffled sniffles. 

Cautiously, Harper steps into the living room, her eyes scanning the wreckage of the night. Beer bottles clutter the coffee table. A crumpled tissue lies near Trudy’s feet. The older woman is slouched on the couch, makeup smeared, a half-empty bottle of beer dangling from her fingers. Her short black skirt is rumpled, ruby-red tank top hanging off one shoulder—still dressed from whatever disaster she’d stumbled home from.

Then Harper sees her face.

Red-rimmed eyes. A swollen cheek. Lip split clean in two.

Harper’s breath catches. Her stomach knots. She opens her mouth—ready to ask what happened, to reach for her—

But Trudy looks up and sees her first. Sees the oversized t-shirt swallowing Harper’s frame. The dried blood. The ruined heels in one hand, the blue dress clutched in the other. 

The room is silent, just the distant buzz of the fridge humming from the kitchen. Then Trudy starts to laugh. A harsh, broken sound that’s half wheeze, half cackle. She doubles over, slapping her thigh, wheezing, almost manic.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” she croaks, gasping between fits of laughter. “I knew you’d give in. One way or another.”

Harper just stares, confused, throat tightening.

Trudy lifts her beer, like she’s toasting her. “So? How much did he pay you?” 

Harper’s stomach drops.

“This was your first time, right?” She wheezes again, coughing hard, her smoker’s lungs rattling like a loose muffler.

Harper glances down at herself. The dried blood on her thighs. The shirt that isn’t hers. Her makeup smeared. She doesn’t even want to know what it looks like.

Trudy wheezes louder, slapping her chest now. “That pretty face of yours—worth something after all.” She leans back, grinning. “You know what to do. Count it, then put it in the tin.”

Something in Harper’s stomach turns at the sight of Trudy’s smile. That same damn smile. It drags her back—to another night, another time, when Trudy said those same damn words.

Harper was in her room, rolling joints on the cracked surface of her desk. Her old speaker crackled as it played Cypress Hill , the bass thumping softly beneath the whir of a box fan in the window. She’d just turned seventeen, and in the quiet of her room, with weed crumbles on her fingers and the streets outside humming with late-night life, she almost felt normal.

Then came the sound she knew too well—the front door crashing open. Heavy, stumbling steps echoed through the house. Trudy. Drunk, maybe high too. Again. Harper didn’t move at first. Just pressed her lips together and listened. The unsteady footsteps got louder. Closer.

“Harper!” Trudy slurred from the hallway, voice sharp and uneven. “You better not be smoking that shit in my goddamn house again.”

Harper rolled her eyes. “I’d offer you a hit, but it looks like someone beat me to it.” 

Trudy stormed into the room, eyes glassy, mascara streaked. She swayed slightly as she stepped over a pile of clothes on the floor, catching herself on the doorframe. Trudy’s lip curled. “Don’t you talk to me like that, little girl.”

Harper sighs at the intrusion. “Alright, Saint Trudy.” 

Trudy’s eyes flared. “I bust my ass keeping a roof over your head, and this is the thanks I get?”

“A roof that leaks and smells like piss.” Harper flicked ash onto a chipped ceramic plate by the mattress. Her jaw clenched, but she kept her tone cool. “Why don’t you go cry about it to whatever loser you let spit on you tonight.”

Trudy’s hand shot out fast—grabbing the plate and hurling it across the room. It shattered against the wall.

“You know what? Maybe it’s about time you start pulling your weight around here,” she sneered, stepping closer. Her breath reeked of bourbon and rot. 

Harper froze, every muscle taut, bracing for the slap she knew was coming.

Trudy’s eyes dragged over her, slow and mean. “You’d make me some good money.”

A dark knot tightened in Harper’s chest. But above it all, pure, raw fear surged—hot and suffocating, clawing at her insides. 

“Say that again,” Harper said quietly—voice trembling, but eyes burning.

Trudy leaned in, eyes dilated, voice a rasp. “That tight little ass, and pretty face? It’d be rolling in cash. At least then you'd finally be worth something.” 

The words slammed into Harper like a punch to the gut. Her fists clenched so tight her nails bit into her palms, grounding her. Her breath hitched, heart pounding in a wild, erratic rhythm. Without looking back, Harper yanked a battered duffel from beneath the bed, fingers fumbling as she tore clothes from drawers. She fought the urge to scream, to shatter everything in sight.

“I’m done,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “I’m fucking done, Trudy.”

“Fine!” Trudy’s desperate scream cracked the stale air. “You walk out that door, you got nothing! Nobody! I’m all you’ve got!” 

Then she crumpled against the wall, sliding to the floor in a heap. Her chest heaved, and her voice went soft and broken: “I’m sorry,” Trudy choked out. “I’d never—I’d never actually—” Her voice cracked, and her frame was fragile. “I hate this. I hate men. I hate what they did to me. I hate what they made me. I didn’t mean it, baby, I swear I didn’t mean it. Please… make it stop. Don’t leave me.”

Harper froze. The bag hung limp in her hand. She looked down at Trudy, who was crying like a little girl, mascara dripping down her face, arms wrapped around herself like she could hold all the pieces together. Every instinct told her to run. Every rational bone in her body screamed that this wasn’t her responsibility. Not this woman. Not this mess.

But Trudy was still crying, small and broken and shaking on the floor. And Harper—angry, tired, seventeen—couldn’t leave her like that. She dropped the bag, walked over, and crouched down beside her.

Wordlessly, she pulled Trudy up, her weight almost boneless, and guided her down the hall. Laid her in bed, and kicked off her shoes.

Trudy clung to her like a child. “Don’t go,” she whispered, over and over, until her voice wore itself out.

Harper lay there beside her in the dark, staring at the ceiling. She didn’t sleep that night. But she didn’t leave either. 

Harper stumbles back, heart pounding, and her breath catching in her throat. The dusty air of the living room comes rushing back into view. 

“What? No… this isn’t…” She presses a hand to her chest, like she could hold her ribs together, like she could trap the fear before it spills out. But it’s too late. All she can feel is seventeen again, small and cornered and one second from running.

“Look at you, acting all modest. But you’re a whore, just like your mother.” Trudy drawls, taking a swig out of her bottle. 

Red. Harper’s world goes red. Her pulse slams against her skull like war drums. Her hands curl into fists before she even realizes she’s moving. The fear that once held her still now snaps, and rage tears loose from the inside out. Instinct takes over. She lunges.

One second, Trudy’s lounging on the couch, bottle in hand. The next, Harper crashes into her, hitting the cushions hard. She’s on top of her, pinning her down. 

Trudy screams, but it’s distant. Harper doesn’t hear it—doesn’t feel the tears streaming down her face, or the way her teeth are bared like an animal. 

“What did you just say to me?” Harper snarls, the words tearing from her throat—raw and desperate. She punches Trudy’s face, then wraps her hands around her throat, fingered digging in. The anger pulses hot and thick through her veins, blurring her vision. 

Trudy flails underneath her, clawing at Harper’s arms. 

“I am not my mother,” Harper seethes, tightening her grip. 

Trudy smiles maniacally through Harper’s hold. “You’re right. You’re just like me .” She spits, then grabs the beer bottle beside her and smashes it against Harper’s head. 

Harper falls off the couch, landing hard with a thud. Her vision darkens around the edges before she succumbs to darkness. 

***

Buzz . 

Harper groans, blinking away the haze of sleep. She’s on the cold floor of the living room. Trudy’s nowhere in sight. Memories from last night slam into her—pain, anger, dread. She’s screwed. Utterly fucked. 

The buzzing won’t stop. That awful, relentless sound is coming from her purse. 

She crawls over, snatches her phone. 

“What do you want?” Harper snaps. 

“It’s Jim down at the shop. Listen, I had a look at your car—she’s done for. Head gasket’s blown, radiator’s leaking, transmission’s shot to hell. Pipes are rusted clean through. It’s a miracle you even drove her in the first place.” 

Harper closes her eyes, forcing herself to breathe slowly so she doesn’t swear. 

“So what now?” she asks, voice tight. 

“It means she ain’t worth fixin’. Best I can do is buy her off you for scrap. Hundred-fifty, tops.” 

Harper exhales sharply. A hundred fifty is better than nothing, but it’s still the end of the road—literally. 

“Fine. Send the transfer,” she mutters. 

“Wish I had better news, kid. That was the best offer I could swing.” 

He hangs up. The room falls quiet again. 

Guilt coils in Harper’s stomach. How the hell did she lose control like that? 

The stairs creak, and Harper looks up to find Trudy stumbling down with one hand clutching her head, the other dragging along the wall. She looks like roadkill in flip-flops. 

When she reaches the bottom, she squints at Harper, frowning like she’s searching for a memory through the fog of her hangover.

Harper stills. Trudy could call the cops—not that she would. She’s a hooker, not a PTA mom. But still. She could kick her out. Or worse… call her mother. 

“What the hell are you doing on the floor?” Trudy asks impatiently. She groans and wanders off toward the kitchen, muttering something about aspirin.

Harper just stares after her, stunned.

By the grace of God, or whoever-the-fuck was up there looking after her, Trudy had forgotten. Bless whatever pills she took last night, because if she hadn’t —Harper would be out on her ass with no car and no plan. 

She’s always had a temper. It only got worse as she got older. She figured it’d ease up once she left Mystic Falls—left behind the Bradshaw high-society bullshit and everything that came with it. But sometimes, it wasn’t just anger. It was something else. An inexplicable kind of rage that hijacked her senses, made her feel like a passenger in her own skin. 

This time, it was worse. She could’ve actually hurt Trudy. Really hurt her. And there was no one there to pull her off. Maybe her mom was right. Maybe she did need counseling. 

Shaking off the thoughts, Harper pushes to her feet, legs aching, and disappears upstairs to her room. 

___

It’s almost laughable, really. Mystic Falls—this sleepy, backwater town that never fails to insert itself into the epicenter of Klaus’ misery. When Stefan called to gloat about stealing his family, Klaus didn’t just see red—he began picturing how many bodies it would take to paint the town in it. He’d turn this place into a graveyard if it meant getting his family back. He was always ten steps ahead. But Stefan’s little stunt? That hit a nerve. 

The door to the Grill creaks open beneath his hand, the stench of cheap bourbon and stale fries washing over him. His ears hone in instantly—he’s not here to drink.

“You’re feisty when you’re mad,” Damon’s voice purrs somewhere inside. 

Klaus spots him by the dartboard, throwing half-hearted shots like a man with no wars left to fight. How pitiful. And next to him, of course, the lovely Elena—every inch the martyr. 

“Well, you’re day-drunk. Not exactly your most attractive look,” she chides.

Klaus has little patience for Elena’s moral superiority or her crusade to mold Damon into a second-rate Stefan. But in this rare case, he agrees. Damon looks like hell.

“Mmm, what is my most attractive look?” Damon replies, cocky on reflex. 

Klaus watches him closely, amused—but also slightly puzzled. His eyes flicker from Damon to Elena and back again. 

Odd.

Because just yesterday, Damon looked gutted watching Harper bleed out on the pavement. There was real panic in those eyes. Not the dramatic kind he puts on for show—but the raw, human kind. And yet here he is now, back to his old tricks, flirting with the doppelgänger like none of it ever happened.

Klaus tilts his head slightly, as if trying to solve a riddle he hadn’t expected. Maybe he’d imagined it. Or maybe Damon Salvatore’s heart was even more divided than Stefan’s ever was.

Klaus steps forward, interrupting their disgusting display of flirtation.

“Don’t mind me,” Klaus says smoothly, a wolf among flies. 

Elena gasps and steps back like she’s seen a ghost. “Klaus.”

Damon straightens, casual swagger stiffening into guarded hostility. “Didn’t think you were the type to stick around for happy hour.”

“My sister seems to be missing,” Klaus says, voice smooth as silk, dangerous as glass. “And Harper—sweet girl—mentioned she wasn’t feeling well before the Homecoming dance.” He tilts his head, feigning curiosity. “Where is little Harper, anyway?”

He turns his attention to Elena, smirking at the panic flickering behind her eyes.

“Leave Harper out of this, Klaus.” Damon steps up protectively.

Klaus hums. “I’d like to know what’s got you so distracted from the doppelgänger. Tell me, Damon—” his tone turns sly “—does Harper taste as good as she looks?”

Elena stiffens, caught in the crossfire. 

Klaus catches it—of course he does. He smiles, sharp and cruel. “Did I hit a mark?” he muses, directing the question at her, but his voice oozes with mockery.

Damon steps forward before Elena can respond, jaw tight. “I said, leave Harper out of this.”

“Truth is, I’ve grown rather fond of your charming little town—and that Harper girl of yours. So why don’t you do us all a favor and tell me where I can find Stefan... and Harper stays perfectly intact.”

Damon doesn’t flinch. “Stefan skipped town the second he saved your ass.” 

“Well you see that is a shame.” Klaus plucks a dart from the board and tosses it lazily, landing a bullseye. “Your brother stole from me. I need him found ”

To his surprise, Elena snaps back. “That sounds like a Klaus and Stefan problem.”

Klaus turns to her with a cold smile. “Well, it’s about to become a Harper and Damon problem if you don’t find him.” 

As if on cue, the door swings open. Harper steps in, cinching an apron around her waist as she heads for Matt. Her hair’s twisted into a messy bun, loose strands framing her sun-kissed face. 

“Ah,” Klaus purrs, eyes narrowing. “What perfect timing. The lone wolf arrives.”

Harper disappears behind the bar with Matt, oblivious to the way Klaus’s gaze tracks her.

“She’s a Bradshaw, isn’t she?” Klaus asks, casual on the surface, but laced with something colder underneath. “Founding family, if memory serves. I don’t recall them being anything more than well-funded vampire hunters. Am I wrong?”

Elena crosses her arms, bristling. “They’re just people, Klaus. They have nothing to do with any of this.”

Klaus tilts his head, smile fading into something far more thoughtful. “Hm. That’s odd,” he murmurs, mostly to himself.

Damon’s posture shifts, suddenly sharper. “What’s odd?”

Klaus blinks, feigning innocence. “Oh, nothing. Just my senses playing tricks on me.”

But Damon’s watching him now—really watching. Klaus can feel it. 

He lets it go, turning his attention instead to the conversation unfolding behind the bar. Harper’s voice filters through the noise, light and careless. 

“I’m fine, Matt. Don’t worry so much,” she says with a laugh. “I just got wasted—I literally can’t remember a thing.” 

Matt, however, doesn’t laugh. His confusion is written all over his face. Klaus glances at Damon, who’s now glaring at Matt with a pointed intensity. Matt clocks the look. Damon gives a subtle nod. 

“You compelled her to forget,” Klaus says—not a question. 

Damon shrugs. “Well, Papa Original did stab her. Thought I’d do her a favor and take that memory off repeat.” 

Klaus lets out a low, amused chuckle. “No judgment, mate. In fact... this works to my advantage.” 

Elena’s eyes narrow. “What do you mean?”

“She won’t know to run,” Klaus says simply. His smile returns, cruel and knowing, just before he starts across the bar—toward her. 

Notes:

Thanks for reading everyone, I really hope you are enjoying! If you have any recs or comments feel free to lmk because I love reading the feedback. I’ll include content warnings in the chapter notes when heavy topics come up. However, I won’t add warnings for sexual content, as I’d prefer to avoid spoilers for what's to come in the chapter. This is an explicit work, so fair warning, this whole fanfic explores some pretty dark themes, so please read with care if any of that might be triggering for you. Also, some of you may predict what's going on, but if not, just keep reading because there's a big twist coming!

Lots of love,
-Bunzie

Chapter 9: Uninvited Guests

Summary:

Harper runs into an old friend at the Grill before being dragged into a family barbecue she never wanted to attend. Meanwhile, Damon digs into the Bradshaw lineage, uncovering clues that may explain Klaus' sudden interest in Harper.

Notes:

Hey there! I had a lot of fun writing this chapter—even if it took me a while. If you haven’t caught on yet, I’m loosely following the show, and this chapter lines up with Season 3, Episode 10. I’ve borrowed a few lines from the show but blended them into my own story. Maybe someday I’ll write something totally original that doesn't follow what happens in the show, but for now I'm having fun.

I hope you like the chapter!

After her brutal morning with Trudy, Harper walks to the Grill in a daze. A bandage clings to her temple where the beer bottle hit—hard enough to make her see stars. Now there’s a constant ringing in her ears. Great. Concussion, probably.

Luckily, her ribs have stopped aching, and the cuts and bruises from Charlotte are gone. She healed fast—faster than she should’ve. But she doesn’t think about it. In fact, she doesn’t think about much at all. 

As Harper walks through the crisp autumn air, she realizes—for the first time in her life—she’s completely alone. She’s always used friends like armor. Surrounded herself with noise, with chaos, with people—anything to avoid the silence, the abandonment. But now? Vicki’s dead. Jackie’s missing. Her crew turned on her. There’s no one left. There’s a numbness settling in her chest, a hollow kind of quiet that feels too heavy to carry. Her mind is blank, her soul just as empty. Maybe it’s the concussion.  

She walks into the Grill and finds Matt behind the bar. His eyes widen when he sees her, panic rushing in. 

“Harper—Jesus, are you okay?”

She waves him off with a forced laugh. “I’m fine, Matt. Don’t worry so much. I just got wasted—I literally can’t remember a thing.”

He hesitates, then gives her space. She slips behind the bar, tying on her apron with slow, deliberate hands. Another day. Another shift.

At least she has Matt, she tells herself.

But Matt isn’t like her usual friends. He’s nice. He’s caring. He doesn’t do drugs, or steal, or start fights—which isn’t a deal breaker, obviously, but it does mean he’s a good person. And good people are harder to keep around. Because good people come with expectations.

Harper starts cleaning tables, her head throbbing with every motion. Her brain slips in and out of focus, everything swimming just slightly out of sync. She presses a hand to her temple. The pounding’s only getting worse. 

She decides to head to the bathroom and grab a few ibuprofen from her bag. But before she turns, she grabs the empty glass off the table in front of her. 

She turns too fast—her head still catching up—and walks straight into someone. She drops the glass and winces, preparing for the shatter. But it never comes.

In the blur of it all, her mind barely registering what’s happening, she looks up—just in time to see someone catch it mid-air with a quick, effortless flick of the wrist.

“I’m so sorry—” she starts, blinking hard, and then stops short when she sees who it is. 

“You,” she says, the word slipping out before she can stop it. 

“Hello, love,” Klaus says smoothly, tilting the glass in his hand toward her like a toast.

“What are you doing here?” Harper’s voice is low, wary. Her eyes dart around the Grill. Klaus stands in front of her with unabashed confidence, that same maddening smile tugging at his lips. Unlike the suit from yesterday, today he’s dressed down—grey henley, dark jeans—but somehow he still looks out of place. 

“I came to see you,” he says, completely unbothered.

Harper crosses her arms. “Why?”

He leans slightly against a nearby table, not imposing, but present. “Because I wanted to. Is that a problem?” 

“You don’t even know me,” she says, her tone dry, skeptical. 

From where she’s standing, she probably looks like a chain-smoking alcoholic who blacked out at a high school homecoming party . Maybe that’s his type, she thinks grimly.

“Not yet,” Klaus replies. His smile is subtle this time, not quite smug—more like he’s letting her set the pace. 

She doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she grabs the glass still in his hand and turns toward the bar, expecting him to take the hint. He doesn’t. He follows. 

She can feel him behind her—not too close, like he’s trying to set a respectable distance to not scare her away. It’s working, for now. 

She spins on her heel, glass in hand. “What exactly do you want to know about me?” Her voice is half-curious, half-dismissive. If he was just another creep with a line, she’d shut it down. And if this was some ploy to poke around in the Bradshaw family drama—newsflash: wrong girl.  

He shrugs lightly. “Whatever you’re willing to share.” 

“That’s a short list,” she mutters.

“I’m patient.”

Harper squints at him. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m not interested.” 

It’s always been like this—rumors trailing behind her, a plateful of baggage on her shoulders. Every guy she’s ever been with has either used that to their advantage or tried to turn her into something prettier, quieter. More likeable.

“So if you’re looking for entertainment, or some charity case to fix,” she adds flatly, “try literally anyone else.” 

It was safer this way. Safer to keep people at arm’s length. Cut ties early, before anyone could bleed. 

“Fix you? Hardly. That’s more my brother’s style,” Klaus says with a low, amused laugh, followed by a dramatic sigh. “The noble one.”

“I just think your fear of playing the game is the reason you're missing out on how fun it can be.” he adds, eyes flashing with amusement. 

Before she can answer—before she can figure out whether she wants to shut him down or ask him what the hell he means, or even ask about this mysterious brother Rebekah never mentioned—Damon materializes beside her in a flash too fast for her foggy head to process.

“What the hell happened to you?” Damon demands. His hands are unexpectedly gentle as he takes her face, thumb brushing the edge of the bandage on her temple.

Harper flinches by reflex and pulls back, suddenly caught between the two men. “I just fell and hit my head. It’s nothing.”

Damon’s eyes narrow. “Fell where? Into someone’s fist?” 

Harper shoots him a warning glare. “I said it’s nothing.”

Damon looks as if he’s going to argue back, but is cut off by Klaus. 

“You heard the lady, Damon,” Klaus cuts in smoothly, stepping slightly in front of her. “She’s fine.” His tone is smug, but there’s an unmistakable edge beneath it. 

The whole alpha male act really isn’t necessary—especially considering Damon’s into Elena, not her—but the testosterone is still leaking like an oil spill. 

“Why don’t you back off,” Damon snaps, stepping into Klaus’s space. 

“I was just having a conversation,” Klaus replies, folding his arms with amused restraint. “No need for the theatrics.”  

Harper exhales sharply, already over the pissing contest. Suddenly, movement outside the Grill catches her eye. She tilts her head, her focus shifting away from the testosterone-fueled standoff. Just beyond the window, a tall, broad-shouldered figure lingers, scanning the room like he’s searching for someone. Their eyes lock. It’s unmistakably him.

Deek is in Mystic Falls. 

Her stomach drops. 

Neither Damon nor Klaus notice—or care—as she quietly slips away. She pushes open the door and steps outside, the cold air hitting her skin and cooling her temper.  

Deek straightens when he sees her, relief flickering across his face. “Harper.”

Like he’s glad she’s alive. Like he didn’t help beat the shit out of her last time they saw each other.

Her glare is sharp enough to cut through steel. She doesn’t slow her pace. 

“What the fuck are you doing here, Deek?” she snaps, seething. “Here to finish the job?” 

To her surprise, Deek actually looks guilty. “Harp, I’m sorry. We panicked. Jackie ran off with everything we had. When we heard your family had money, we didn’t know what else to do.” 

Harper laughs, cold and bitter. “Mickey and Switch? Sure. I saw that betrayal coming a mile away. But you?” Her voice cracks. “I trusted you, Deek. I thought you had my back.” 

Deek winces like the words hit. He doesn’t deny it. He just sighs, like he’s already accepted she won’t forgive him. But then he doesn’t say anything. He just keeps glancing around, fidgeting. Harper’s never seen him like this. Deek—the calm, quiet one. Now shifting from foot to foot, eyes darting toward the Grill windows like he's being hunted. 

“What’s going on?” she asks, narrowing her eyes. 

“I came to warn you,” Deek says, voice low and ominous. 

Harper almost laughs. Warn her? About what—the Mystic Falls PTA? The overachieving cheer squad? She lets out a weak chuckle, the mix of exhaustion and head trauma turning everything surreal. But when she looks back up, Deek isn’t laughing. He looks scared. 

“About what?” she asks, sobering.

He nods toward the Grill. “About him.”

Through the window, Harper sees Damon—still inside, mid-argument with Klaus. Elena stands in Harper’s place now, trying to calm them both down. 

“Damon?” Harper asks, squinting.

“I’ve seen some messed-up shit in my life, Harp—but nothing like him.” 

Harper crosses her arms, jaw tight. “You mean the guy who saved me from when you jumped me? That guy?”

Deek doesn’t flinch. “His eyes went black. He moved like he teleported. I heard bones break before he even laid a hand on Mickey. And his teeth—God, Harper—they grew. Like fangs.”

Her blood runs cold from the fear in his eyes, but she keeps her tone flat. “People hallucinate under pressure, Deek. Especially people with a pharmacy in their system.”

“I wasn’t on anything,” Deek insists, raising a hand over his heart. “Mickey’s been clean ever since that night—swear to God. And Switch? They started talking again.”

That stops her cold. Mickey going clean? Switch speaking? Nerves begin to creep up her sides. Deek could be lying. But if this was a setup, it’s a weird one. Why bother coming all the way here just to lie?

She doesn’t answer, but he sees the gears turning.

“I’m sorry,” Deek says again, voice softer now. He leans in a little. “But you need to stay away from him.” 

Harper’s jaw tightens. She’s had enough of the guilt trips. “You’re sorry. I get it. But that doesn’t undo what you did—and it sure as hell doesn’t mean I’m going anywhere with you.” 

She shakes her head, and starts walking away.

“Stay out of my business,” she calls over her shoulder. “And get the hell out of this town.”

She doesn’t wait for a response. He’s just trying to rope her into some stupid plan. He has to be. Damon’s just some guy. Right? But even as she walks away, something shifts in her chest. A quiet, crawling unease.

Harper heads back inside the Grill, expecting more testosterone-fueled tension—but the bar is empty. 

Klaus and Damon are gone. And despite everything, some small, quiet part of her breathes easier. After the night she had—and now the morning—she just wants one bullshit-free day. 

___

Damon strolls through the automatic doors of Mystic Falls Hospital with purpose. The familiar scent of antiseptic—and more notably, blood—hits his nose the moment he steps inside. 

As if tracking down Stefan wasn’t enough, now Klaus was making cryptic little comments about Harper’s family. Like he knew something Damon didn’t. And Damon hated that.

Somehow, this girl was taking over his life. Damon couldn’t stop thinking about her—no matter how hard he tried, Harper was always there, front and center. She didn’t even realize how gorgeous she looked today, bandaged head and all, walking through the Grill like her presence hadn’t knocked the wind out of him. 

But that bandage. He hadn’t left her like that.

Which meant something had happened after he dropped her off—something behind closed doors she wasn’t telling him. All he really knew was that she lived with her aunt, a woman he’d never seen and never had a reason to meet. Still, Harper kept parts of herself tucked away, locked behind some wall she refused to let him past. And that stung more than he liked to admit.

Then, the moment Harper had stepped outside to talk to that dumb brute, he knew he was screwed. Honestly, he couldn’t believe the guy had the balls to show his face around here. More muscle than brain, clearly. Damon should’ve ripped his heart out when he had the chance. And while compelling Harper again wasn’t high on his to-do list, he’d do it in a heartbeat if it meant keeping her safe. 

He approaches the front desk, flashing the receptionist a lazy smirk. She brightens immediately, a blush blooming on her cheeks. 

“Can I help you?” she asks, voice just shy of flustered.

“I’m looking for Dr. Fell. Meredith.” Damon leans casually against the counter, throwing in a wink for good measure.

The woman laughs nervously, tucking a stray dark hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry, Dr. Fell’s prepping for surgery. She won’t be available for a while.” 

Damon’s smile drops. He leans in, his tone low and firm. “Page her, now. Tell her Damon needs a favor.”  

His eyes lock on hers, and the compulsion takes hold instantly. The receptionist blinks, then nods, reaching for the phone and punching in a few numbers.

Moments later, Meredith storms into the lobby, tugging off her sterile gloves with obvious irritation.

“What are you doing here, Damon?” she snaps. 

“I need to do a little snooping.” he says quietly. “The Bradshaws. I’m looking for birth records.” 

Meredith narrows her eyes. “I can’t just hand over confidential patient files—I could get fired. That’s protected under HIPAA, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Damon’s jaw flexes. He still has no idea what Ric sees in her. 

Giving her a dry look, he says, “I’ll donate a few vials of my blood.” He rolls his eyes, then cocks his head. “Call it good luck for your surgery.” 

She doesn’t smile—but she doesn’t walk away either. 

“This about that Harper girl?” she asks, voice laced with judgment. “Ric told me about her. And your weird obsession.” 

Damon exhales slowly through his nose. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yeah—this is about her. Klaus suddenly has an interest in her family, and I don’t like being the one in the dark.”

He looks down at her pointedly. “So. Are you going to help me or not?”

Meredith hesitates, then bites her lip. “Fine. Five vials.” 

She turns on her heel, footsteps echoing down the hall. Over her shoulder: “You coming, or do I have to pull teeth too?”

***

After Damon so graciously handed over five vials— full to the brim —of his blood to Meredith, she led him to the hospital’s archive room. Because of course Mystic Falls wouldn’t stop at rotary phones and founding family drama; the hospital’s record system is just as archaic. 

The room is small and cramped, packed with rusting filing cabinets and lined with a thick layer of dust. It smells like mildew, and the lights above flicker every few minutes or so. Sighing, he begins to look for the B section. 

Meredith, unsurprisingly, refused to help him actually commit a crime—but she at least pointed him in the general direction. That’s more than he expected. Maybe she wasn’t too confident about that surgery, he thinks with a smirk.

He’s got about ten minutes before the security guard does his next round. Plenty of time. And honestly, if the guy comes back early… well, Damon wouldn’t mind. He skipped lunch.

He crouches down beside one of the battered cabinets, tugging it open with a metallic groan. The files inside are a mess—of course they are—and he starts flipping through the manila folders, scanning the names until finally: Bradshaw, Harper M. 

He pulls it free, dust wafting into the air, and opens it.

Birth date: August 18th, 1990. Blood type: AB negative. Mother's name: Lily Bradshaw (née Carter). Father's name: Neil Bradshaw. 

Damon frowns.

Neil Bradshaw. As in Council-member, old-money, practically allergic to scandal. That Neil Bradshaw.

Everyone in town knew Neil wasn’t Harper’s biological father. It had been the talk of Mystic Falls for years—how the golden boy of a founding family had a daughter who looked nothing like him. Rumor was, he couldn’t even stand to look at her. Kicked her out when she was thirteen. So why the hell was he listed as the father on her hospital birth record?

Something doesn’t sit right. Damon knows how people in this town work—especially the founding families. Covering things up is second nature to them. If Neil wasn't her biological father, but still had the pull to get the record altered? That means he was hiding something. Maybe a shameful affair. Or maybe…

He flips through the rest of the file, scanning vitals, delivery notes. One line catches his eye.

“Delivery complications–mother sedated. Father requested discretion.”

His brow furrows. 

Discretion? Over what? 

There’s no mention of another potential father, no medical anomalies, no emergency paternity tests. Just a sloppily scrawled attending physician’s signature—one he doesn’t recognize. He’ll look it up later.

He snaps the folder shut, jaw clenched. He’ll take it home, dig deeper. Maybe Stefan’s old journals have something on the Bradshaws. Anything that makes this make sense.

As he strides down the hallway toward the front desk, he spots Meredith across the way, tying her scrubs back into place like she’s headed into surgery.

“Any luck?” she asks, eyeing the file in his hand. 

“Dead-end,” Damon mutters. “Says Neil’s her father.” Even as the words leave his mouth, they feel wrong.

He doesn’t know why he’s disappointed. Hell, it should be a good thing—Neil Bradshaw being her father meant she came from nothing supernatural, nothing tying them to Klaus, at least that he knows of. So why does it still feel off? 

Meredith sighs, giving him a shrug. “Damon, kids pop out not looking like their parents all the time. Genetics are weird.”

He shoots her a dry look. “Then why all the rumors? Why’d he throw her out at thirteen? Why did the whole town brand her the bastard?”

Meredith pauses. “From what I’ve heard about her… maybe it had more to do with her personality than anything.”

Damon exhales a dry scoff. She doesn’t know Harper. No one does. Not really. 

Already turning to leave, he tosses over his shoulder, “Hope my blood saves your patient today, Dr. Fell.” 

___

Back at the Grill, Harper leans against the bar, nursing a glass of water and pretending the spinning in her head is just from lack of sleep. She’s still unsettled after seeing Deek—his warning replaying like a broken record in the back of her mind—but she refuses to let it show.

She slips into the bathroom, pops two ibuprofen, and stares at her fingerprint-smudged reflection in the mirror. She purses her lips, studying herself. Heavy, 3 p.m. eyes, shitty skin, and her tangled hair wrapped in a bun above her head. 

She feels about as disgusting as the sticky tiles beneath her boots.

She could’ve left with Deek. Could’ve hopped in whatever rust-bucket car he drove into town with and vanished like she always used to. But she didn’t. She stayed. And for the life of her, she doesn’t know why. 

With a sigh, she walks out of the bathroom and heads back to the bar. Then, as if her day couldn’t get any worse, the door swings open—and Harper looks up. 

Will steps in first, all Duke-blue hoodie and backwards cap, grinning like a kid. Right behind him is her mother, polished and beaming like this town hasn’t chewed her daughter up and spit her out. 

Harper stiffens. 

Will spots her before she can disappear into the back. “Harper!” he calls, waving. “You never came back last night with your drink. I was looking everywhere for you!” 

And just like that, her headache triples.

“Yeah… about that.” She bites her bottom lip, already bracing for more. 

“Harper, baby.” Her mother’s voice cuts through like syrup and honey. Lily wraps her into a sudden hug, and Harper freezes, caught completely off guard. Her mother pulls back just as quickly, eyes scanning her face—then settling on her forehead. A manicured brow arches. “Did you get into a fight?”

Harper groans. “It’s nothing. I just fell.” 

“Good,” Lily says, exhaling like she’d been holding her breath. 

But Harper hears the real relief—not that she’s okay, but that she didn’t get into a fight and embarrass the family more than she already has. 

She ducks behind the bar, grabbing a rag and pouring drinks for the regulars. “So, what can I do for y’all?”

Lily beams. “We’re just here to pick up the pies we ordered.” 

Will chimes in, grinning. “Dad’s throwing a BBQ at the house. We’re on dessert duty.” 

Harper forces a smile, already turning to head toward the kitchen. “I’ll go grab them—” 

“Wait!” Will interrupts, eyes lighting up. “You should come, Harp!” 

Her mouth opens, then closes again. Going back to that house? The idea makes her stomach turn. That house was never a home—it was a museum of cold silence and sharp glances whenever her father was around. And seeing him again? No, thanks. 

“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Will,” Lily says sweetly, squeezing his arm. 

Harper turns slowly. “Really?” she asks flatly. “You do?” 

“You kept your end of the deal and talked some sense into Willy,” Lily says, raising a brow at Will. “Plus, your father’s been asking about you.” 

Harper bites her lip, brows drawing together. Asking about her doesn’t mean he wants her around. It hasn’t always been this bad—the tension. She remembers flashes—quiet afternoons reading with him in his study, them kicking a soccer ball in the backyard. Moments where he felt like a real dad. But as she got older—mouthier, angrier, and less like the daughter he wanted—those soft moments disappeared. Her temper grew, and so did the space between them. And when her face stopped matching the Bradshaw mold? He turned cold. Unforgiving. 

Will notices Harper’s hesitation and leans in. “I’ll be your buffer. If Dad says one sideways thing, I’ll start talking about frat parties until he walks away.”

Harper lets out a small laugh. “Tempting.”

“Come on,” he says, grinning. “I really want you there.”

She hesitates—then smiles lightly. “Fine.”

“Yes!” Will pumps his fist in victory. 

Rolling her eyes and chuckling, Harper heads for the kitchen to grab the desserts.

***

After her shift, Harper calls a cab to her childhood home, too tired—and frankly too emotionally drained—to walk. Her pulse quickens the closer they get, the cab winding down the long, familiar road that leads to the Bradshaw Estate. Virginia pines crowd the edges of the drive, their tall, shadowy figures casting long fingers across the pavement. She used to play hide-and-seek in those trees with Will, back when everything was simpler.

The cab rolls to a stop at the front of the estate, where a circular driveway wraps around a marble fountain still spurting water even after this many years. 

The house looms ahead, just as massive as she remembers—grand, stately, too large for any real warmth. High white columns hold up a wide veranda, and the pale stone exterior is washed in soft golden light from perfectly placed sconces. The garden, as always, is pristine. Roses and boxwoods bloom in orderly beds that wrap around the front. 

Harper steps out slowly, the weight of memory heavy on her chest. 

Following the scent of barbecue to the back of the house, she falters when she sees how many people are gathered. 

Will nor her mom mentioned that half of Mystic Falls would be here. 

Off to the side, Will is playing basketball with Tyler, Jeremy, and a few Duke guys on the glossy court her father had built the moment Will won his first tournament at ten. Harper remembers it clearly—her dad declaring Will was going to be the next Michael Jordan, as if manifesting it would make it true. 

Spotting her mom talking with a group of well-dressed women, Harper straightens. She tugs her hair out of its messy bun, running her fingers through it in a half-hearted attempt to smooth it down. 

“You can do this,” she whispers under her breath.

She approaches and places a hand lightly on Lily’s back. “Hi, Mom.” 

Lily turns, smiling politely and pressing a quick kiss to Harper’s cheek. Around her, the circle of women noticeably shifts—straightening, adjusting their expressions. Harper catches a few glances exchanged. One of the women, unfortunately, is none other than Carol Lockwood. 

“I’m so glad you came, Harper,” Lily says, voice clipped but pleasant. “You must meet everyone.” 

Harper forces a smile as her mother guides her through introductions—ladies from the town council, others here on business with her dad, and a few relics from her childhood she barely remembers. Finally, Lily stops on Carol. 

“And of course you know Carol,” she says with a too-bright tone, tilting her head slightly like Harper’s a child who needs a reminder to be polite. 

Harper bites back every instinct in her body and plasters on a tight smile. “Good to see you again.” 

Carol’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Tyler tells me you’ve been working a lot at the Grill. That must be exhausting.” She sips her drink, voice honeyed. “But it’s good to stay busy.”

Harper forces a smile, pulse tightening at her temple. “Pays the bills.”

“I suppose it must.” Carol nods, as if she’s agreeing with something tragic. “Though I hope you’re saving some of that money for college. You were always such a bright girl.”

“Still am,” Harper says flatly, her smile sharpening.

Lily lets out a small, performative laugh—like she's trying to smooth things over without taking a side. “Well, Harper’s figuring things out. She’s always wanted to go into psychology.”

Harper side eyes her mom, letting out a breath when she sees her pleading eyes. Don't fight , she’s telling her.

Carol hums, clearly unconvinced.

Before Harper can come up with something vaguely civil, a man’s voice cuts across the patio.

“Ladies!”

All heads turn as Neil Bradshaw strides toward them, drink in hand, his dress shirt neatly tucked, collar slightly loosened. He’s tall, blond, blue-eyed, and clean-shaven—he looks so much like Will it’s almost jarring.

“Looking stunning, all of you,” he says with easy charm, flashing a smile at the group. Then, as he reaches Lily, his smile softens, eyes lingering.

“And my gorgeous wife,” he adds, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek.

He doesn’t notice Harper right away—not until he’s close enough to place a hand on his wife’s back and finally meets his daughter’s gaze. He stops for a beat too long. 

Harper scratches the back of her neck awkwardly. “Hey, Dad.” 

Clearly, Will and her mom hadn’t mentioned that she was coming, or else the look of utter shock on her father’s face wouldn’t be present. 

“What a surprise,” Neil says, pulling Harper into a hug. 

He pulls her back quickly though, looking at her up and down. This must be quite awkward for him, considering they’re in front of a bunch of people, but he pulls off nonchalant effortlessly, and pretends nothing is out of the ordinary. 

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he says, voice breezy. “You’re looking well.”

The other ladies, sensing the invisible thread pulling taut between them, start murmuring polite excuses and slowly drift away. Carol lingers a moment longer, offering a tight smile before finally stepping off to join her son.

Harper swallows hard. “Thanks. Will invited me.”

She starts to ramble, the way she does when she feels unwanted. “I was just stopping by…” She lets out a small, awkward laugh. “I’ll get going now.”

Neil’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice lifts a notch—loud enough for anyone still within earshot. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He places a hand on her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “You’re family. Of course you’re welcome.”

Harper forces a tight smile, unsure if he’s saying it for her or for the benefit of whoever’s still watching. Probably the latter.

Lily jumps in quickly, her tone chipper. “There’s ribs on the grill and lemonade on the patio—go get yourself a plate, baby.”

Harper offers them both a small, awkward smile and turns to walk away. In the past decade, she realizes, her parents have become strangers. They still look the part—prim, polished, sophisticated—but time has edged its way in. Wrinkles line her mother’s eyes, and her father’s hair is beginning to grey at the temples.

They’ve aged. She’s changed. And pretending nothing’s happened feels heavier than ever.

It must be exhausting for them too, keeping up the facade. 

___

Damon tosses another dusty ledger onto the floor with a thud. 

“Useless,” he mutters, rubbing a hand through his hair as he scans the next shelf. 

He had been at this for two hours. Town records, property deeds, founding family trees—anything that might hint at why Klaus is suddenly sniffing around the Bradshaws. Harper’s name keeps circling back to him like a bad dream, tangled in secrets no one seems to want to say out loud. 

Harper’s birth records lay sprawled on the table beside the bar cart, corners curling from how many times he’d flipped through them. Nothing. Just the same, suspicious physician’s signature.

About to give up, Damon eyes the last stack of old books he hadn’t touched—thick, leather-bound volumes stacked on the shelf. One catches his attention: a logbook dated 1792. Before Stefan and Damon were born. Around the time Mystic Falls was still just a spattering of farmland. 

He flips it open, fingers blackening with age-old dust.

Log Excerpt – circa 1792:

In the year 1792, unrest in the township had grown. Fear and suspicion spread among the God-fearing folk, aimed at certain men and women believed to be practicing unnatural arts. After much talk and worry for the town’s safety, all were taken, judged by the Old Laws, and burned at the stake along the western woodline. 

In the weeks that followed, a man by the name of Henry Bradshaw—formerly of the Carolina territories—did settle the land. He commissioned the raising of a house atop the scorched clearing, proclaiming it a place of atonement and stillness. He spoke of peace between the living and the wrongfully departed, and the prosperity of this township henceforth. The land was to serve dual purpose: a plantation of tobacco and cotton, and a place where the restless dead may know silence.

Damon thinks the information over. The witch burial ground—the Bradshaws own the house. At least now he knows Henry Bradshaw was the first of them in Mystic Falls, coming from the south after the witch trials. But why would Klaus care? 

Maybe Harper’s a witch? It could explain why Henry Bradshaw built over the site—if he was a warlock. Or maybe he was just a smart businessman. Damon doesn't even know if that even is her real bloodline. 

Suddenly, a floorboard creaks. 

Damon freezes, hand still hovering over the book’s spine. Footsteps—measured, unhurried—click across the hardwood. 

“Well,” comes a familiar voice, low and amused. “I expected bourbon. I didn’t expect homework.”

Klaus strolls over to the bar cart, eyeing the loose records still fanned across it. Harper’s name is visible on one of the pages. Klaus studies it, lips curling slowly. 

“You know me,” Damon says, dry. “Never miss a chance to plan an epic failure.” 

Klaus hums, amused, and selects a glass. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Who could’ve guessed your own brother would betray you?” He pours a generous measure of bourbon and lifts it in a mock toast. “Seems the girl is a Bradshaw.”

Damon closes the book in his hand with a deliberate thud, affecting indifference. “Seems she is.” He pours himself a drink—laced with vervain—and takes a sip, wincing slightly. “Mind telling me why that matters to you ?” 

Klaus swirls his glass, smiling faintly. “Well, it doesn’t now. Seeing as she is one.”

Damon watches him carefully, weighing the words. He’d hoped Harper wasn’t a Bradshaw.

Klaus’s gaze sharpens. “So. You don’t know where Stefan is. Or Rebekah.” 

Damon shrugs, smirking. “That’s the thing about younger siblings. You never quite know what they’re gonna do.” 

Klaus exhales, exasperated. His patience is thinning.

“You know,” he says, almost lightly, “we’ve actually got a lot in common, you and I.”

Damon raises a brow. “Really?” 

“We both have sibling issues. Both infatuated with a woman who wants nothing to do with us...” Klaus trails off, his smile darkening. 

Damon glares at him, jaw tightening. He doesn’t know if Klaus is just trying to provoke him—but it’s not going to work. He’s not infatuated with Harper. At least… he doesn’t think he is. She’s just some helpless girl. Some stubborn, reckless, charming, funny, devastatingly pretty girl.

Damon swallows hard and shakes the thought off. Focus.

“Why do you need Stefan?” he asks, trying to steer the conversation. “He stole something from you?”

Klaus just smirks, pleased by the shift. “My family, the Originals. I had them daggered, boxed-up awaiting the day when I saw fit to wake them. And he went in and pinched the bloody lot.”

Damon rolls his eyes. “Of course he did. Such a buzzkill, my baby bro. Well, I’d love to find him. Trouble is, I sure as hell don’t work for you.”

Klaus steps closer, lifting Damon’s glass from the table and sniffing. “You know,” he says smoothly, “your drink reeks of vervain. So I can’t compel you.”

He pulls out his phone.

“But maybe Harper’s not so cautious,” he adds, punching in a few numbers. “Hopefully she doesn’t care too much about her baby brother—because Willy won’t be the star basketball player for much longer.” 

Damon’s chest tightens. His breath halts. No. 

Klaus smiles coldly. “A brother for a brother. A family for a family.”

He shrugs, almost casual. “Seems fair to me.”

Notes:

Sorry for ending on another cliffhanger, lol. If you remember from the show, Jeremy is targeted, but since this story's about Harper, I thought I'd throw her brother into the mix instead (Don't worry, it won't follow the exact same plot). Thank you all so much for the comments. I’ve been having a rough week at school, and seeing your feedback seriously makes my day. Next chapter will dive more into Damon and Harper’s dynamic (Damon's redemption arc, lol). Stay tuned!

Lots of love,
-Bunzie <3

Chapter 10: Roots and Ruins

Summary:

Harper's pulled into Damon’s search for Stefan, while buried family secrets begin to surface. Elsewhere, Klaus makes a calculated move to tip the scales in his favor, and bring his family back.

Notes:

Hellluuurrrr!! This chapter is suuuper long which explains why it's been so long since the last update, but here we are! If ya'll have any suggestions on how to make the story better, please let me know. We are finally breaching romance territory woohoo! I'm going a bit delulu lmao, anyways I hope you enjoy the chapter.

Cheers!

Harper sips from a lukewarm cup of lemonade, standing stiffly by the hedge as laughter and music swell behind her. Kids run through the sprinklers, and a Bluetooth speaker hums with old country hits. Someone's flipping ribs on the grill while a woman—his wife, probably—leans in close to whisper something in her husband’s ear and giggles like a teenager. Harper could really use a smoke.

She stands there, her smile starting to ache, feeling like she’s in someone else’s skin. She nods at passersby, silent and smiling, as if the greatest betrayal she could offer her parents was revealing even an inch of her character. 

Her mom’s off talking to some woman in pearls, probably gossiping about real estate or country club dues. Her dad’s nowhere in sight. 

Deek’s warning still buzzes in her head, impossible to shake. She glances over her shoulder out of habit, half-expecting Damon to appear—fangs bared, eyes glowing red like some nightmare from a horror movie. It’s stupid. She tells herself it’s just the head trauma. She’s being dramatic. Damon’s just a guy. And her friends? They’re cracked-out lunatics who barely knew what day it was, let alone who to trust. Why would she believe them now? 

The smell of grilled meat clings to the air. Somewhere behind her, someone turns the music up louder. Harper leans against the fence, eyes drifting toward the driveway where Will and Tyler are still shooting hoops, shouting over each other and laughing like idiots.

She watches the ball bounce once, twice, arcing through the air as Tyler takes a wild shot. 

“Catch!” Tyler yells.

But the throw’s too strong—way too strong. It sails clear over Will’s head and bounces into the road beyond the driveway. Without hesitation, Will jogs after it, grinning.

​​At that same moment, a black SUV rounds the bend too fast—windows tinted, engine roaring. Harper barely sees the man inside—dark sunglasses, stone face—but something in her gut screams . 

“Will, wait–!” she calls out. But he doesn’t stop. Why isn’t he listening to her? 

Time seems to warp. The SUV barrels toward him. Will’s still on the road, fumbling with the basketball.

Her pulse spikes, her stomach dropping. She bolts across the yard toward the front. 

“Will!”

She hits him like a linebacker, arms wrapped around his shoulders as she yanks him clear. They crash into the grass just as the SUV roars past—tires screeching, smoke curling from the pavement. 

The car doesn’t stop. It just keeps driving.

For a few seconds, the only sound is the wheeze of her own breath and Will’s weight crushing her ribs.

Will blinks down at her, stunned. “What the hell—”

“Are you insane ?” Harper wheezes, shoving him off. “Why didn’t you move?” 

Will scrambles up, chest heaving. “I don’t know—I didn’t see it—” Shouts echo across the yard. A crowd rushes toward the road, shoes thudding over grass and gravel. Lily drops to her knees beside Will, cupping his face with trembling hands.

“Oh my God—Will, baby, are you okay?” she cries, her voice breaking.

He nods, coughing. “Just... winded.”

Neil’s already barking at guests, a vein bulging in his neck while his eyes scan the street like he might somehow drag the truck back with his rage alone. “Did anyone get the plate? Who the hell drives like that?”

Harper still kneels in the grass, stunned. Her mother turns to her, eyes glassy with shock, and pulls her into a tight hug.

“You saved him,” Lily whispers. “You—you saved my baby.”

​​But Harper barely hears her. Her eyes are locked on Tyler, who’s just now approaching with a stunned expression plastered on his face.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Harper snaps, shoving her mom off as she storms toward him. “What kind of throw was that?” 

Tyler raises his hands, stunned. “I—I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t ! You could’ve gotten him killed!”

Carol Lockwood storms over, her heels clicking sharply against the patio stones. “Don’t talk to my son like that, little girl .” 

Harper turns, snarling. “ Excuse me? ”

She’s ready to go full throttle when a firm grip lands on her shoulders. 

“Well!” Neil’s voice booms behind her, falsely cheerful, not a trace of the earlier fury left in his tone. “Sorry for the excitement, folks! Let’s get back to the patio before another hooligan tries to run over my son!”

He leans in, voice like ice in her ear. “Don’t make a scene.” Then he walks off, gently pulling Will to his feet.

Guests chuckle nervously and drift away. Carol offers Harper a poisonous look. Tyler mumbles something, but Harper doesn’t hear. 

Lily crouches next to Will again, holding his hands like she’s afraid he’ll vanish. 

Then Harper hears her mom ask: “Will, why aren’t you wearing the bracelet I gave you?”

Harper stares. Seriously? Will almost got hit by a car and now Mom is commenting on accessories?

Will glances down, sheepish. “I don’t know… Ty said I should take it off for basketball.”

Neil stiffens a few feet away.

“I told you not to take it off,” Lily mutters, voice clipped as she smooths Will’s shirt and ushers him toward the patio. 

Carol walks beside Neil, ranting softly. Harper watches them all go, her mind in shambles. Will almost got killed. She saved him. And now she’s the one who’s ‘making a scene’?

“Harper!”

A voice cuts through the fog in her head.

“Harper!” 

She turns.

Damon is jogging across the lawn, breathless, his hair a windswept mess, sweat beading at his temple. His eyes find Will first. Relief washes over his face.

“What happened? Is everything okay?”

Harper’s heart skips, Deek’s warning flashing across her mind like a flare in the dark. “Damon?” Her voice comes out smaller than intended. “What are you doing here?”

He exhales sharply, walking closer, eyes never leaving her. “Carol invited me.”

He scans the patio, the crowd, then finally settles his gaze on her again. “What the hell happened?”

“Will, he—” Harper tries to speak, but a sob escapes her instead, thick and sudden, like it had been clawing its way up from her gut all this time. “He could’ve died... he—” but the rest won’t come out. 

Damon steps in, closing the space between them with a softness that disarms her. His brows knit together, concern stark on his face. “Are you hurt?”

Before she can even nod, he kneels, fingers brushing dirt from her knees, gentle and lingering like a whisper. Then up to her elbows—his hands skimming across her scraped skin with a kind of tender reverence. 

Harper doesn’t move. She doesn’t even breathe. For a second, it feels like the entire yard drops away. No Carol. No party. No family expectations weighing her down. Just the two of them. Just his hands on her skin and his eyes—so startlingly blue—focused entirely on her. 

Then, like waking from a trance, she jerks back. Deek’s warning slams into her memory like a slap. 

Damon pauses, his expression unreadable. His hands drop to his sides. Still, something hangs heavy between them.

His mouth twitches, trying for lightness. “Relax,” he says, voice low. “I’m not going to bite.” 

Harper laughs under her breath—dry and a little shaky. “Sorry, I just—” She glances around, pressing her palms to her thighs. “I think I’m going crazy.”

“Trust me, you’re not.” Damon straightens, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “Listen,” he adds after a moment, quieter now. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I need a favor.”

Harper narrows her eyes slightly. “What kind of favor?”

“I need to get to that old house,” he says, voice lowering so no one else can hear. “The one in the woods. Your family’s place.”

She frowns. “You mean the abandoned one?”

Damon nods. “Yeah. Stefan’s hiding out, and I think he’s using that place as cover. I don’t know the way, and I figured...” He pauses, his mouth twitching into a faint smile. “You could show me around, Kitty.”

Her brows arch. “You think Stefan’s hiding out in some crumbling cabin? Why?”

“He likes abandoned places. All brooding and rot,” Damon deadpans, then shrugs. 

Harper crosses her arms. “He still drinking?”

Damon snorts. “Something like that.”

She watches him for a moment. That’s a dodge, and she knows it. The way he won’t meet her eyes when he says it makes her stomach twist. She could call the cops, tell her parents that Damon’s alcoholic—maybe even junkie—brother is squatting on private property. But she won’t. Of course she won’t. And the thing is, he knows that. He trusts her—not enough to tell her everything, but enough to show up and ask. He’s protecting his brother… the same way she would hers. 

“Fine,” Harper says, glancing once more at Will, who’s now sitting by the grill while their mom flutters over him like a nurse. “I’ll show you the way.”

Damon nods, grateful, but doesn’t thank her. Of course he doesn’t. And yet—for some reason—Harper doesn’t mind. 

___

When Damon rushed to the Bradshaw estate, he couldn’t quite put into words the wave of relief that hit him—Will is okay. Harper is okay. 

Of course, he had a plan. He always does. When Elena called, said Bonnie had a lead on Stefan’s whereabouts, everything started falling into place. If Stefan was holed up at the old witch house, then Damon knew damn well the spirits buried there wouldn’t exactly roll out the welcome mat. They hated vampires—had every reason to. So, he figured... bring a Bradshaw. Maybe the dead would remember who built the place and think twice before throwing a supernatural tantrum. What better shield than a descendant of Henry Bradshaw himself?

Sure, Damon knew where the house was. He didn’t need her for directions—he just needed to trick her into going. And asking had felt easier than dragging her. Now, walking just a few paces behind, eyes half-focused on the sway of her hips in those cutoff jean shorts, he knows he’s already won. He told her Stefan might be there. That part was true. He’s trying to be honest with her, or at least... as honest as he knows how to be.

“Does Klaus have something to do with why Stefan’s hiding here?” Harper asks, glancing over her shoulder as she pushes a low-hanging branch out of the way.

She clearly remembers him saying Klaus took Stefan on a bender, but too many questions can be dangerous. So, instead, Damon quickens his pace, falling in step beside her. 

“You’re cute when you’re suspicious,” he says, letting a lazy smirk pull at his mouth.

“And you’re shady when you’re stalling.”

He only grins wider, undeterred. “Wanna play 21 Questions?”

Harper’s annoyance falters, replaced with a grin. She laughs—freely, for once—and tilts her head at him. “How do you even know that game?”

“I wasn’t lying when I said I used to be into sorority girls,” Damon replies, deadpan.

She grimaces at that, laughing in spite of herself, and he feels a stupid flicker of pride in his chest. He knows he’s probably pushing too far with her—but it’s fun, and he’s already hooked. 

“We each get one skip,” he adds. 

Harper rolls her eyes, all mock-condescension. “Fine. Is Stefan hiding because of Klaus?”

Damon considers using his skip—just to be difficult—but decides against it. “He stole something from Klaus. And now he’s hiding in that house, relishing in his revenge.” 

“Isn’t that kind of petty?” Harper asks, but her tone’s softened, like she’s glad he actually answered. 

“Maybe. But that’s Stefan for you,” Damon replies with a shrug, then pivots. “What’s your favorite color?” 

She steps over a root with practiced ease. “If you want to know my cup size, just ask.” 

“I don’t need to ask,” he says smoothly. “I’ve got a good guess.” 

She scoffs and hides a grin. “Blue,” she says eventually. “My favorite color’s blue. Yours?” 

“Red.”

Harper hums. “Figures. You seem like a red guy.”

Damon smirks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Intense. Dramatic. Excessively sarcastic.” She grins, waving her hands theatrically as she walks.

Damon just laughs, unable to disagree with her. “What do you want to study in college?”

Harper glances at him, caught off guard for a second. “Psychology.”

He raises a brow. “Huh. Interesting.”

She smirks. “What, you think I’m too messed up to want to help other people?”

Damon chuckles. “I think you’re the exact kind of messed up who’d actually be good at it.”

Harper laughs under her breath. “Guess we’ll never know,” She clears her throat, continuing. “So, how old are you?”

“Twenty-five,” he says—then adds with a half-smile, “Ish.”

She snorts. “Ish? God, you’re old.”

Damon places a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “I’m wounded.”

Then he nods toward her. “Alright—first kiss?”

Harper hesitates, then shrugs. “A kid named Marco Lattimore, under the bleachers during a pep rally. He tasted like Dr. Pepper, and I found out later he kissed three other girls that night. All on a dare.”

Damon winces playfully. “Classy. Sounds like you’ve got impeccable taste.”

“Tell me about it,” she laughs. “Your turn.”

There’s a beat of quiet between them. Damon watches the subtle way her steps falter—just enough to notice. Like the world’s swaying slightly under her feet. He lifts a hand without thinking, fingers brushing gently against the gauze on her head. “How’d you get this?”

Harper stiffens. “Can I skip?” 

He raises a brow but nods. That’s a red flag if he’s ever seen one. If it was really a fall, she’d just say so. Someone hurt her, and he’ll figure it out. But for now, better not poke the bear. “Sure. Your turn.”

Harper side-eyes him, thinking. “So… are you and Elena, like, together? Or are you just emotionally codependent?” 

“That’s two questions,” he points out. “And no, we’re not together.” He draws the word out like he’s mocking the very concept—like together is some cringey teen soap trope.

“Right,” Harper chuckles, clearly satisfied. “Okay, your turn.” 

Damon thinks for a second. What does he want to know about her? The better question might be: what doesn’t he want to know? 

“Are you close with your mom?” he asks finally, unsure why that one comes out first. 

Harper looks puzzled at that. “That’s a loaded question.” Still, she looks around the woods, processing. And eventually, she starts to talk.

“My mom and my aunt grew up in Midwest Arkansas—the Ozarks. Trailers, dirt roads, real hard living. Then my grandpa landed a job in Virginia at a coal mine and moved them out here. My mom was barely nineteen when she got here, just looking for any work she could find.” Her voice tightens a little. “When my dad met her, he gave her everything she never had. Money. A nice house. A reputation. And she never looked back. Married into the Bradshaws and never spared a single glance behind her. My aunt still talks about it. How she just abandoned them.”

Harper hesitates, glancing at him. Damon keeps his eyes steady on her, nodding once. Go on.

“I love her. I do. But…” She lets out a bitter little laugh. “She abandoned me , too. Not physically, not right away. But once I stopped fitting into the neat little picture, once people started to notice the differences—she folded. She chose him. She always chooses him.” 

She gestures vaguely, like the Bradshaw estate is still visible behind the trees. “The money. The parties. The comfort. She wouldn’t risk losing any of it. So she let him throw me out.”

Damon is quiet for a moment. The rage that boils in him isn’t entirely his own.

“She’s a coward,” Harper finishes quietly. “And despite that, I can’t seem to hate her for it.”

Damon wants to say something— I get it , she doesn’t deserve you , you’re stronger because of it —but none of it feels right. Harper isn’t asking for comfort; she’s laying her cards out, bare and vulnerable, a small show of trust. So instead, he simply nods, and that alone seems to ease something in her shoulders.

“What about your mom?” She asks after a beat.

The question catches him off guard. For a moment, Damon doesn’t answer. He just watches her, and realizes—maybe for the first time—how familiar her story feels. 

Giuseppe Salvatore, his father, was cold. A man of discipline and iron expectations, he saw emotions as weakness and Damon as a failure—too impulsive, too rebellious, too soft when he should’ve been hard. He praised Stefan and punished Damon, never hiding who the favored son was. His mother, Lily Salvatore, ruined him. She was selfish, distant, and turned a blind eye to the abuse he suffered under his father’s hand. Like Harper, Damon still can’t seem to hate her for it—and he hates that most of all. He learned early that love was conditional, and even then, it was rarely offered. 

The irony of it all is almost laughable—watching history repeat itself in a different house, with different names. Except Harper isn’t a vampire. She’s just a girl. And still, somehow, she’s stronger than he ever was.

“You won’t believe me,” Damon says, his voice low and wry, “but our parents? Not so different.”

Harper raises a brow. “You’re lying.” 

He chuckles once, without humor. “I’m not. My parents worshipped Stefan. I was the problem child. My dad was a tyrant, and my mom… she let it happen. Then she got sick and died, and that was that.” He shrugs, but there’s bitterness there. Still fresh after all these years.  

Harper slows beside him, and Damon doesn’t miss the way her expression softens.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, reaching out and squeezing his bicep softly. “People suck.” 

The contact is small, but it knocks something loose in him. Damon clears his throat, suddenly feeling the walls crack. He’s gone too far. So he does what he’s best at. Deflect. 

“Do you know who your dad is?” he asks, voice low. 

Her smile fades, replaced by a hard, wary set of eyes. “What?”

He turns slightly, pretending to be casual, but he sees her face change. Smile gone. Eyes hard.

“Why are you asking me that?” she asks, suspicion dripping from every syllable. 

Damon hesitates. He knows he’s crossing a line—they’ve come so far, and now he’s about to set a match to it. He could play it off as idle curiosity, but something about the look on her face—the betrayal already blooming—makes the lie catch in his throat. Quietly, he reaches out, gently stopping her by a nearby tree.

“Harper, I need to tell you something,” he says, his voice lower now. 

She glances around, thrown by the shift in his tone. Her eyes narrow, sharp with warning, and she shrugs out of his grasp. “What is it?” she asks flatly.

Damon braces himself. Don’t look at me like that.

“I found out your dad really is Neil Bradshaw,” he says carefully.

Her reaction is immediate—visceral. “You went through my medical records?” she half-yells, voice pitching higher. 

“How did you—?”

Harper’s tone turns bitterly matter-of-fact. “Because I know what’s on my birth certificate. And he’s not my biological father.” 

Damon stumbles, “But—his name is on there…” He stops, knowing the words sound stupid. Deep down he always knew Neil wasn’t her father, he just hoped he was wrong. 

Harper’s fists clench, and for a moment, she turns as if to storm off. Instead, she kicks a rock in anger and then spins back toward him, hair tangling between her fingers as she runs a hand through it. With a frustrated groan, she snaps, “Ugh! No shit, Sherlock—do you know anything? My dad’s the most well-known attorney in Virginia. A Bradshaw! Of course he’s going to cover up his bastard child!” 

Her voice trembles between fury and despair. Then, unexpectedly, she starts to pace in small, angry circles, breathing in sharply and exhaling slowly—and almost imperceptibly, she begins counting under her breath from one to ten, over and over. 

Damon’s eyes widen. He’s never seen her like this. He knew Harper had a temper, but this? This looks like she’s going to detonate, like the fury inside her could level everything in a five-mile radius. He reaches out, slow and careful, concern etched into every line of his face—but she smacks his hand away before he touches her.

“Harp—”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” Her voice cracks. She sinks down at the base of a tree, head in her hands. Her voice is small now. “My friend Jackie told me to do this. It’s stupid, but… it helps.”

Damon grinds his jaw, an unnerving thought creeping in. It’s not impossible—just rare. But if Harper’s telling the truth about Neil Bradshaw not being her biological father, then the odds are a lot higher. He watches her quietly, a dull pinch in his chest that he hates. Slowly, he lowers himself beside her—close, but not touching. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says finally. “Klaus was asking about your family. He’s dangerous, Harper. I didn’t know what he wanted from you, so I checked the records to get ahead of him.”

She lifts her head slowly. Her cheeks are red, her eyes glassy. 

“Why didn’t you just ask me?” she murmurs.

He opens his mouth, then closes it. He wants to say, Because I don’t trust anyone. He wants to say, Because I didn’t know if you’d tell me the truth. But that’s not the point. The point is, she’s hurt. And for once, he doesn’t want to make it worse.

“I should’ve,” he says instead.

“Look,” she says after a beat, voice steadier now, “if we’re going to be friends or whatever this is… you can’t go snooping into my life like that. I’ve been slandered and harassed my whole life because of this.” 

He swallows. “Noted.” 

She turns to face him, only inches away now. The pleading in her eyes tells him she’s not angry, not really. She just wants to be seen—known for something other than the illegitimate child of a founding family. 

“I’m serious,” she repeats, voice quieter now.

Damon falters. Apologizing isn’t something he’s good at—he usually deflects, dodges, charms his way around it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “From now on, you’ll be my first source. No one else.

It’s not the most elegant apology, but it’s real. And it must be enough—because her shoulders drop, and her fists unclench.

Damon gets to his feet and offers his hand. She hesitates, then takes it with cold fingers. They walk in silence, nearly to the house now. Damon glances at her from the corner of his eye. That simmering rage—it caught him off guard. He’s seen it before. And if he’s right about what Klaus is after… He doesn’t let the thought finish.

Breaking the silence, Damon says lightly, “What’s your middle name?”

Harper lifts a brow, side-eyeing him. “Did Klaus ask for that too?” 

Damon chuckles. “No. I’m just curious.” 

She studies him a second longer, then relents. “May. Harper May Bradshaw.” 

He grins. “Well, Harper May Bradshaw… you’ve got a beautiful name.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “You’re such a kiss-ass.”

“I try,” Damon says, smirking as they step through the last line of trees—and the abandoned Bradshaw house finally comes into view.

“Well,” she mutters, “here we are.”

___

Harper’s not proud of the way she lashed out. But she can’t say it wasn’t warranted.

Her temper's been on a short fuse lately—burning too fast, too hot. And yeah, rifling through her birth records is a serious invasion of privacy. But Damon was honest with her. Open, even. And if Klaus really is a bad guy, and he was just trying to protect her—then maybe, just maybe, that crosses into forgivable territory.

Still, shame simmers low in her gut. All she can hear is her father’s voice, cold and clinical: Dramatic. Flippant. Hysterical. He’d always made her feel like she was broken for feeling anything at all. Like her anger was proof she was unlovable. If only you acted like a normal girl…  

She clenches her jaw, willing those thoughts away. Damon didn’t run, didn’t flinch. He sat beside her and waited—for the storm to pass, for the heat of her rage to burn off like a midsummer haze. 

Now, stepping into the abandoned Bradshaw estate, Harper lets the musty air slam into her senses. The place smells like rot and old wood, and her boots creak over warped floorboards. The wallpaper peels like skin, cobwebs stretch across every corner, and mouse droppings scatter the baseboards like confetti. 

Behind her, she hears the hesitant scuff of shoes. Damon lingers in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame like he half-expects a bear to leap out at him.

“Everything okay?” she asks, glancing back. 

Damon finally steps in, his smirk not quite reaching his eyes. “Yeah, just gives me the creeps,” he mutters. He tries to pass it off as sarcasm, but Harper doesn’t miss the way his shoulders stay tight. 

He takes a few cautious steps inside, scanning the dim room. When nothing happens, he relaxes—barely—and starts snooping, naturally. Harper sighs, arms crossed. And I was worried he’d think I’m crazy, she thinks dryly. He’s just as unhinged as me.

“Come out, Stefan…” Damon calls. “Olly olly oxen-free.”

No answer. 

Harper drifts toward what used to be the parlor—couches sagging and stained, a thick layer of dust sealing everything in time. Boxes are stacked along the walls, filled with books, toys, and clothes. It takes her a moment to realize: this is her family’s stuff. Junk, mostly. Stuff they didn’t care about losing to fire, mildew, or theft. 

She kneels down and rifles through a box. Old things—some dating back to when she was a toddler. A pair of her mother’s heels. A pile of construction paper crafts with her name scribbled in crayon. Keepsakes no one ever came back for.

She pulls out her father’s high school yearbook—Mystic Falls High, Class of ’87. When she opens it, a puff of dust hits her face and makes her cough. She flips through the pages, smiling faintly at familiar names and bad haircuts.

Another box holds old books, clothes, random knickknacks. Just as she’s about to move on, her eyes catch on a photo album labeled Mystic Falls, 1990 —a year before she was born.

Standing now, she flips through the album slowly. Most of the photos are of Lily and Neil—smiling at dinners, hugging on beaches, nestled beside bonfires with smoke curling in the background. There are a few party shots too: flushed cheeks, dim lighting, familiar faces blurred at the edges, all frozen in time.

Then, without warning, the brittle spine gives way, and a loose photo slips free, fluttering to the floor. She bends down to pick it up, brushing dust from its glossy surface. In the photo, it’s her mother—and, surprisingly, Richard Lockwood. They look young, maybe in their early twenties. The photo is candid, taken mid-laugh, her mom’s hair wild like she’d been dancing. Richard’s arm is casually slung over Lily’s shoulders, his grin easy, familiar. Harper stares at it, unsettled. She never knew they were close. 

Across the room, Damon’s peering through a doorway.

“Stefan’s probably in the basement,” Harper calls, pointing toward the hallway. “Down there.”

She starts to lead him, but he stops her with a hand to her shoulder.

“You might wanna stay up here,” Damon says, jaw tightening. “Stefan gets a little... rowdy when he’s brooding.” He raises his voice slightly at the end, clearly trying to draw his brother out.  

Harper raises a brow. “You saying he’s gonna damage Bradshaw property?”

“Since when do you care?” he shoots back.

She pauses, looks up at the cracked ceiling. “You’re right. I don’t.” With a shrug, she turns and heads back to the boxes. 

Damon’s halfway down the hall when he stops. “Hey—thank you, Harper.” His voice is sincere. 

Digging into his pocket, he reaches for his keys, tossing them in the air at her. 

He tosses her the car keys, which she catches one-handed, frowning. “You’re letting me drive your car?” 

He smirks. “Easy on the brakes. You brought me here—the least I can do is make sure you get home.” 

When she starts to protest, he adds, “I can find my own way back.” 

“Are you sure you don’t need backup?” 

“I can handle my brother. You go deal with yours.” 

Harper nods, lips twitching into a smile. As she turns to leave, she calls over her shoulder, “Call me if you need anything.”

She waves her phone and the keys in the air lazily before pocketing them—along with the photo album in her other hand. 

___

Klaus sits alone in the half-finished parlor, staring down at Rebekah’s grey, lifeless body. The dagger lies discarded beside her, as if the decision to pull it free was made in a moment of weakness. Elena gave Rebekah back as a peace offering, but it meant nothing—Stefan still had the rest of their family, and that was the only leverage that mattered. Undaggering her meant risking everything. She knew the truth now: he killed their mother, then let her believe it was Mikael. If Rebekah decided to run, to turn on him, he would have to dagger her for who knows how long.

But this is Rebekah. She always forgives him. 

The moment the dagger’s absence fully catches up to her system, she gasps awake—eyes wide, fury already building.

“Hello, sister,” Klaus says smoothly, as though she’s just woken from a nap. “Welcome back.”

Rebekah pushes herself upright with a groan. 

“Here we are. Home sweet home,” he adds, gesturing to the empty shell of a house. “Only took a thousand years.”

Rebekah’s brows knit. “Elena daggered me.” Then her eyes land on him. “And you , Nik…”

Before he can blink, she grabs the dagger and hurls it at him. Klaus snatches it from the air inches from his chest. Feral with rage, she charges, shoving him hard into the wall. He doesn’t fight back—at first. But when she lunges again, he spins her around and pins her with one hand. He doesn’t want to hurt her. Yet he will dagger her again if he has to. 

“You killed our mother !” she seethes, tears threatening to spill. 

Klaus releases her gently. He places the dagger on a nearby table—a silent offering of peace. 

“I did,” he admits quietly. “But I know where her body is. Stefan has it. Along with the rest of our family.”

The tactic works. Rebekah falters, hurt and confused. Her rage searches for a new outlet. She grabs a chair and hurls it across the room. It crashes against the scaffolding. Then, quick as lightning, she grabs the dagger again—and this time, she plunges it into Klaus’s gut. He staggers forward with a grunt.

“That’s for mother,” she hisses. 

Klaus grits his teeth and slides the blade out. But he knows he’s already won. Her rage is spent, and now they share a common goal: getting their family back.

Rebekah steps back, chest heaving. “Where is Elena?”

Klaus straightens, wiping blood from his shirt. “Safe. For now. You’ll be pleased to know she handed you over without much protest.”

Rebekah sneers. “Am I supposed to thank you for undaggering me? After all the times you’ve shoved that thing in my chest yourself?” 

He steps forward, holding out her daylight ring. “No. But I do expect you not to kill her.”

Rebekah’s expression curdles into disbelief. “I don’t care about your pathetic hybrids, Nik. I’ll tear that doppelgänger’s throat out the moment I see her.” 

“I know,” Klaus says coolly. “Which is why I made a deal. Her life in exchange for another.”

He spins the ring between his fingers before extending it toward her.

Her gaze sharpens. “What other life?”

“Harper Bradshaw,” he says evenly.

Rebekah’s mask slips, just for a moment. She snatches the ring from him and slides it on. “What makes you think I care so much about her ?” 

Klaus smiles faintly. “Because you do. She’s your only true friend. You should’ve seen her at Homecoming—so upset on your behalf.” He pauses, amused. “What a fiery one.” 

Rebekah tilts her head. “You’re going soft.”

Klaus chuckles, eyes cold. “I’m being strategic. I need Elena alive for the hybrids. And if Harper’s going to die…” He steps closer, menace curling around his words, “…it’ll be by my hand.” 

___

The creak of boots on the front steps makes Harper look up from where she’s sitting on the porch, cigarette dangling from her fingers. Damon’s leaning on the banister like he owns the place, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

Since getting home—after an exhilarating, reckless drive in Damon’s ‘69 Chevy—Harper’s been flipping through the photo album again and again. Studying every page. Searching for clues about her parents’ past lives. But her mind keeps circling back to that photo—the one of her mother and Richard Lockwood. It’s the only one that feels… off. Her mother never even mentioned Mayor Lockwood when she was younger. She’s always been close with Carol—but not her husband.

“You still alive?” Damon calls out.

“Barely,” she mutters, flicking ash into a chipped mug. “Didn’t think you’d come back.”

“I came for my car.”

She smirks, holding up his keys. “That’s fair. It’s a nice ride—could use a new paint job, though.”

Damon steps closer, fishing something out of his jacket pocket. “Why don’t you focus on your own car from now on?”

He tosses a small set of keys onto the table next to her—not his usual ones. These are attached to a keychain she doesn’t recognize.

Harper blinks. “What’s this?” 

“That one’s yours,” he says, casually. “Brand new. Leather seats. Pretty little bow on top—well, there was, but I took it off. Thought it was tacky.”

She glances past him, eyes locking on the sleek steel-gray Honda Civic parked just off the curb. It’s new, spotless, with a faint factory shine still clinging to the hood. Not luxury, but nicer than any other car she’s owned. 

“You bought me a car?” she asks, stunned.

“I figured I owed you one,” he shrugs. “Also, so you stop showing up to work late.” 

Harper stares dumbfounded at the keys, then at him, then back at the car. Her jaw tightens. “No. I can’t take this.”

She gets up and starts pacing, cigarette bobbing between her lips. “I’m returning it,” she mutters. Then quieter: “How the hell do you return a car?”

Damon leans on the porch railing, watching her spiral with faint amusement. “You can’t,” he says. “Not unless you wanna commit light fraud.”

She shoots him a glare. 

He sighs, his tone softening. “Look. It’s not charity. I just want to make sure we’re even—after everything I asked you to do. After everything I’ve put you through.” He hesitates, then glances briefly at the house behind her. “And I want to know that if you ever need to leave this town… you can.” 

That stops her. She looks up at him, a little guarded, but not entirely ungrateful. “Okay,” she says. “We’re even. And… thanks, I guess.”

Damon grins. “You guess ?”

“I’m still mad at you.”

He smirks. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Then, something in his expression shifts—like he’s debating whether to push his luck. Slowly, he steps in closer. He hesitates, just for a beat, like he’s giving her the chance to bolt. When she doesn’t, he leans in and kisses her gently on the cheek.

“Goodnight, Harper.” 

And then he walks off into the night, leaving Harper frozen on the porch. Her lips are parted, eyes wide. The cigarette hangs forgotten between her fingers, burning low. A strange, giddy warmth bubbles in her chest—something she hasn’t felt in forever. It takes her a moment to place it. 

Hope.

She began the day thinking about everyone who had left her—and everyone she had left behind. But what she failed to see was the person standing in front of her now. The only person she has right now is Damon. And no matter how badly she wants to hate him, she can’t. She tells herself it’s her hormones. But deep down, she knows better. She knows it’s because they’re alike.

Because, like her, there are times when he chooses self-destruction over healing. Moments where he reopens the wounds hoping that he will learn what it’s like to have them again. Because there’s no greater desire than a damaged person’s need for another scar. 

And within those times of desperation—those rare, aching gaps in his armor—there are glimpses of kindness, care, and love. The kind Harper wishes, more than anything, would one day be solely meant for her.

Notes:

Sorry for going emo at the end ya'll lmfao. I write in sections, so clearly when I wrote that part I was in my feels. Anyways, I'm starting to follow the TV show a lot more closely now, and will up until we introduce the rest of the Mikaelsons. If you want to follow along with the show, we are at S3, ep10 rn. Thank you guys for reading, and as always I hope you gave a great start to the week!

Lots of Love,

-hBunzie <3

Chapter 11: Family Forgives

Summary:

At the Founders’ Fundraiser, Harper arrives on the arm of one date but ends the night with another, swept deeper into the Mikaelsons’ orbit as champagne, secrets, and shifting loyalties blur the lines between choice and consequence.

Notes:

Hi everyone! Welcome back to Tangled Hearts! I apologize for the hiatus, I was so busy with school and work this summer that it completely drained me. I hope this long chapter can make up for it!

Enjoy!

The lanterns glow too brightly, warm orbs of gold swaying in the breeze as music drifts through the crowd. Laughter rings across the lawn, children weaving between long white tables draped in linen, the scent of roast pork and sweet tea thick in the air. A string quartet plays somewhere, though Harper can’t see them. Everything shimmers at the edges of her vision—too hazy, too soft. 

She stands near a hedged path, fingers sticky with cake frosting, watching the party unfold. Faces blur in and out of the Bradshaw estate, some she recognizes—Mayor Lockwood shaking hands with her grandfather, Mrs. Fell tipping her glass to Mrs. Gilbert across the patio. But the longer she looks, their faces melt and warp. Jackie’s by the lemonade stand, grinning with red-stained teeth. A boy she went to high school with stands by the hors d'oeuvres, only for him to turn around and his face morphs into Deek’s, chiseled jaw, dressed in a black tux. Mickey pops a shrimp into his mouth and laughs when a kid stumbles and falls a few feet away from him. Aunt Trudy weaves through the crowd in a yellow sundress, laughing, young again. 

The quartet stops, and the crowd ushers into the foyer. Her father stands at the top of the grand staircase, raising a glass to the crowd. His eyes scan the party—pause on her. 

“To legacy,” he says, voice echoing through the manor. Then he leans down close to her ear, a hand resting heavy on her shoulder. “Remember who you are, Harper.” 

She blinks. The foyer is gone, and she’s left standing in the hallway across from the study. The lights flicker overhead. Her feet are bare on cold wood. A man and a woman argue behind the cracked door of the study—her mother’s voice sharp, furious. The man’s voice is rough, low, but unmistakeable. Richard Lockwood. They don’t notice her at first, but then Lily catches her eye and stiffens. Richard follows her gaze. A beat of silence. Then the door slams shut.

She spins around again, heart racing—but she’s no longer in the house.

She’s in the middle of the woods now, alone. The party is gone. Just trees and the smell of pine and rot. The air tastes like iron. She’s no longer in her party dress. She doesn’t know what she’s wearing. 

Something moves through the trees, then lands in the middle of a clearing. A massive wolf stands just feet away, its fur dark and matted with thorns. Its eyes gleam gold in the moonlight, shining like firelight. Blood drips from its fangs, staining the leaves below. 

For some reason, Harper doesn’t run. She walks slowly toward it, as if drawn by instinct, and then kneels beside it. The wolf’s ribs rise and fall with each slow breath, tracking her with its golden eyes. Drool and crimson drip from its muzzle, dripping onto her lap. 

It’s mouth doesn’t move, but the voice cuts through her skull with an inhumane growl. “The anger in your heart warms you now…but it will leave you cold in your grave.” 

The wolf lunges. Its jaws stretch wide, eyes blazing—

Harper jolts awake, choking on a gasp. Her shirt is drenched in sweat, hair clinging to her face. Her chest heaves, lungs straining like she’s still in the woods, still about to be torn apart. She presses a hand to her heart. It’s beating so fast she wonders if it might burst. 

Sitting up from her bed, she pulls her comforter off herself, noting the time on the alarm clock: 7:43AM. Groaning, she sees the picture of her mother and Richard on her bedside table, which she quickly shoves into the drawer. The silence in the house is quiet—too quiet. No clinking dishes, no old TV reruns. Trudy must not be home.

Walking up to her bedroom window, she opens the blinds, checking the driveway only to find her brand new car, shining in the morning light. Betty. 

She named her car last night, Betty, after the cow on her favourite ice cream brand after grabbing a tote from the freezer. She did it mainly because she knew Damon would laugh at her ridiculousness. At this sudden reminder, an ease settles over her shaken body, calming her racing heart from her dream. 

Heading over to the bathroom, Harper stares at herself in the mirror, eyes tired but lighter than usual. She showers, then decides to put her hair into two french braids, rather than the messy bun she usually adorns. She spends more time than usual on her makeup, for no particular reason, she tells herself. Adding a wing to her eye, smudging it when it doesn’t look right, then redoing it. She wants to look good today. 

She even changes her shirt once. Settles on one that isn’t stained or stretched out. She pulls on her favourite pair of jeans, and a soft, red cardigan she finds deep in her closet. Again, for no particular reason, she tells herself.

The house is empty, as she suspected, but instead of worrying about where her Aunt may have ended up, she pushes the thoughts away and walks outside, keys jingling in her hand. 

Sliding into the driver’s seat, she inhales the new car smell, a smile playing on her lips. Today will be a good day. Today, Harper chooses to be happy. She’s going to make the most out of her day, no matter what it takes. 

There’s a Restoration Fundraiser at the Lockwood house tonight, which Harper found out yesterday from her mom, who insisted she come. Harper’s been around the woods, and she knows these events are cover-ups for Council meetings. Still, she debates going, just to dress up, and maybe because she knows a certain someone will be there. 

Flipping the visor down to check her makeup one last time, she finds a post-it note from Damon stuck to the mirror. 

“Try not to crash this one, Kitty.” —D. 

She laughs, then covers her mouth quickly. It’s scary, this feeling of hope. Especially with someone so unpredictable as Damon Salvatore. But there must be something there between them—a spark, maybe. Who buys someone a car without any ulterior motives? 

Harper’s foot presses heavy on the gas as she speeds down the quiet streets of Mystic Falls, windows cracked to let the morning air rush in. Music blares, sunglasses low on her nose, fingers drumming along the steering wheel. The car glides like it was made for her—tight turns, smooth control. Even when she takes corners a little too fast, the thrill outweighs the risk. Freedom tastes good.

Rounding the corner into the town square, she grins, gearing up to slide into her usual spot behind the Grill. That’s when a man steps directly into the road, so fast she barely has time to break. 

“Shit—!” she yells, wrenching the wheel hard to the right. The car skids slightly before jerking to a stop, tires screeching in protest.

The engine sputters to a stop. Heart pounding, Harper throws it in park and bolts out, fury already bubbling up. “Jesus Christ, are you—”

Her voice dies in her throat. It’s Klaus. Standing in the street, perfectly unharmed. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his coat, posture relaxed. 

“Good morning to you too, love,” he says, voice light, British, and infuriatingly amused.

Harper’s jaw drops. “What is actually wrong with you?”

“I rather enjoy a dramatic entrance,” he replies, tone almost bored.

She just stares, mouth slightly open. He must be clinically insane.  

“Look, I know I almost hit you,” she mutters, heading back toward her car, “but I really have to go to work—” Then, quieter to herself: “And I’m not supposed to be talking to you right now.” 

She doesn’t expect a response. But Klaus is suddenly at her side again, trailing her like a shadow. 

“Ah yes,” he says, tone dry, “Damon’s brilliant advice, I presume. Keep your distance from the big bad wolf.”

“Something like that,” Harper halts and crosses her arms, annoyed that he caught that.

Klaus leans casually against the open door of her car, that smirk still plastered on his face. There’s something unsettling in the way he looks at her—not threatening, but knowing. Like he’s always five moves ahead. 

“By the way,” he adds, tapping the roof of her car with idle fingers, “Rebekah’s looking forward to seeing you tonight.”

Harper’s brows knit. “Tonight?”

“The Restoration Fundraiser.” His eyes glint. “Didn’t Damon ask you to be his date?” 

Harper’s jaw tightens. She says nothing, but that flicker of confusion doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Ah… hasn’t asked yet,” he says, feigning sympathy. “Perhaps he’s still hoping to take Elena.”

A beat of silence. Harper keeps her expression unreadable, refusing to indulge him—but something inside her twists. A part of her wants to ask more, dig deeper, see what else Klaus might slip if she lingers.

“Poor girl’s torn, isn’t she?” Klaus goes on, voice smooth and syrupy. “Two Salvatores. All that brooding and martyrdom. I can’t say I blame her for being indecisive.”

Harper exhales through her nose. “Are we done here?” 

Klaus straightens, stepping back with mock grace. “For now.” 

He turns as if to leave—then stops, glancing back over his shoulder with that maddening, knowing smile. “I’ll see you tonight, Harper.” A glint in his eye. “Wear red. You look dashing in red.”

***

Pulling into the Grill’s back parking lot, Harper slams the car door shut and heads inside. It’s still early, before the lunch crowd rolls in, but the smell of stale beer and frying oil is already thick in the air. 

If that wasn’t a warning enough, then Harper doesn’t know what is. Klaus is unhinged, dangerous territory. And no matter how good looking or charming, she’s staying 5 feet a part at all times. 

Klaus being smug was nothing new. But the way he said Rebekah is excited to see her… That stuck. He could be lying, for all she knows. Maybe he’s just toying with her—which is a very real possibility if what Damon warns her about is true. 

She doesn’t even want to think about Damon and Elena. This is what she gets for getting her hopes up. She should stay away, go back to being invisible, avoid inevitable heartbreak. She’s been alone this long, she can handle a little longer. But Harper can’t get the feeling out of her head that Klaus wants to mess with her, and that stubborn, determined part of her wants to figure it out herself. 

Finally, she steps into the bar, ready to clock in—and stops short. 

Trudy is there. Trudy never steps on this side of town. At least not during the light of day. 

At first Harper’s not sure it’s real. Her aunt stands at the edge of the bar like she’s been there for hours, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the other fidgeting with a cocktail napkin. No makeup. Hair in a low bun. Sunglasses still perched on her head like she forgot they were there.

Harper blinks. “Trudy?”

Trudy looks up slowly, as if hearing her name from underwater. Her eyes are tired, but alert. 

“Hey, you,” she says, voice too soft to be normal. “Didn’t know you were still in town.”

Harper frowns. “I live with you. Where the hell were you this morning?”

Trudy shrugs, eyes drifting back to the napkin like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. “Went for a walk.”

“A walk?” Harper echoes, her guard going up. “To a bar on the other side of town?”

“Don’t start,” Trudy mumbles, downing her glass and throwing it down on the table. “Are you gonna kick me out, or pour me another?”

Harper debates sending her home, but right now she knows if she sends her out she’ll more than likely end up passed out in a ditch. She decides quickly to do her magic trick—the one she learnt ever since her high school years of dealing with Trudy’s alcoholic ass. Pour another drink, but water it down—not enough to cause a fight, but enough to start weaning off the alcohol. With each glass, pour more water until by the end she’s only drinking water and not even noticing. 

But before she can answer, Damon slips into the Grill through the front door, his usual cocky swagger in place—only it falters slightly when he sees the two of them.

He raises a brow. “Well. Isn’t this cozy.”

Trudy swivels in her barstool, catching sight of him over her sunglasses. “Well, hello, handsome.”

Harper’s eyes go wide. “Nope. Don’t.”

But Trudy’s already standing, smoothing down her top and popping a hip. “You new around here?” she purrs.

Damon blinks, amused. “Depends who’s asking.”

Harper fights the urge to gag, then slam her head on the counter to knock herself out cold. 

“I’m Trudy,” she says, sticking out a manicured hand to Damon. 

He takes it, glancing at Harper with a smile. “Trudy, huh?”

“She’s my aunt,” Harper stares daggers down at the both of them. 

“I raised her,” Trudy says proudly, like that explains everything. “Taught her everything she knows.”

“God, please stop talking,” Harper mutters, yanking Trudy’s glass away and pouring another. 

Trudy leans over to Damon, lowering her voice just enough for Harper to still hear. “She’s a little uptight, but don’t let that scare you off. Good genes, that one. Strong bones.”

Harper slams a rag down on the counter. “Jesus Christ. Go sit in the back, or I swear I’ll lock you in the storage closet.” 

Damon chuckles, glancing at Harper as Trudy finally slinks off to the other end of the bar, still eyeing him like he’s dessert. 

Harper shakes her head, muttering under her breath, “God, she’ll flirt with anything with a jawline.”

She grabs a spotless glass and scrubs at it anyway, just to give her hands something to do—anything to distract from the heat creeping under her ribs. 

Without a word, she pours Damon his favourite bourbon, trying to ignore the way her cheeks warm under his gaze. He catches it, of course, but instead of commenting, just leans back with that infuriatingly amused look.. So much for a good day. 

Grateful for a reprieve, Harper helps herself to a cup of coffee, and nearly sighs with relief when Mystic Falls’ resident history teacher, Alaric Saltzman, slides onto the stool beside Damon.

“How’s Stefan?” he asks, pointing to Damon’s glass while looking at Harper to signal what he wants. 

“Sad, boring, brooding, usual Stefan,” Damon sighs, rolling his eyes. “I found out what he’s hiding from Klaus though,” he trails off, a light smirk on his lips. 

“So, you’re going to give it back, right?” Alaric asks, a sort of condemning tone to his voice. 

Damon shakes his head slowly, tightening his jaw. “Can’t do that, ‘Ric.” 

Alaric’s eyebrows raise to the ceiling in disbelief. “What?” He blurts out loudly, but quiets when he sees that Harper is standing a few feet away, sipping her coffee and listening in. “Are you insane? That is incredibly dangerous.” 

Dangerous? Klaus may be scary and a little neurotic, but he doesn’t look dangerous. There’s too much happening behind the scenes that Harper doesn’t know. Like a kid sent to bed before the good part of the movie, she hates being left out.

Damon slaps ‘Ric on the shoulder, giving him his best smile. “We aren’t backing down until Klaus’ minions leave town,” Then Damon drops his hand and looks troubledly at him. “And I don’t know how far Stefan is willing to go before he gets someone hurt.” 

At that, ‘Ric huffs out a breath and slams his drink back. 

“Plus, we have Bonnie working on the–” he glances at Harper, noticing her listening in between cleaning glasses. “Box, that won’t open.” 

“You drag that poor girl into everything.” Alaric says, cutting Damon a glare. “I don’t support any of this.” 

Damon turns his head to the side, annoyance flashing across his face. “I don’t need you to support me. What I need is for you to not tell Elena about this.” 

Harper nearly drops the glass in her hand, caught off guard by Damon’s secretiveness. Not that it’s a competition… but she knows something Elena doesn’t. That has to count for something, right?

Alaric clearly wants to say more, but doesn’t. He tosses a few bills on the bar and nods to Damon. “See you tonight. No party tricks.” 

Harper watches as Damon shoots a withering glare at Alaric, more petty than sincere. She pretends to focus on drying glasses, but she can’t help but want to know if he has a date to the fundraiser. She can tell Damon is in a foul mood though, as his snark isn’t very playful, more direct. 

Still, she hears herself say, “Didn’t think you were the community fundraiser type…”

Damon doesn’t even glance up. “Yeah. Can’t wait to get lectured by the entire town council about community spirit while pretending not to be drunk.”

Harper lets out a small breath of a laugh, eyes fixed on a water stain on the counter. 

“You going?” he asks, although his mind is elsewhere, as he’s looking off in the distance. 

She shrugs. “Might swing by.”

“And here I thought I was the only one who liked to self-inflict pain.” He tries to joke, but it doesn’t quite land. He’s upset—Harper can hear it in the drop of his voice, see it in the way his eyes don’t quite reach hers.  

Still, she drums her fingers against the counter, keeping her eyes on the coffee in front of her. “So…are you going with anyone?”

That gets his attention. Damon’s eyes flick to hers, sharp and focused. For a moment, there’s something unreadable there—hesitation, maybe. Her pulse spikes. Abort mission, Maday.

But the flicker vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by his trademark smirk.

“Are you asking to be my date?” he teases, voice sliding back into familiar territory. 

Harper sighs, biting the inside of her cheek. If he was taking Elena, he would’ve said so by now, right? “No… It’s just that my parents will be there, so I’d rather be set on fire than go solo.”

Damon tilts his head, studying her like she’s a chess move he hasn’t decided on yet. “Let’s make a deal.”

She narrows her eyes. “What kind of deal?”

“You come with me tonight,” he says, voice lighter now. “Act like you like me—just enough to sell it. I’ll help you avoid your family and their stuck-up friends.” 

She watches him, guarded. “And in return…?”

“I get to remind Elena what she’s missing.”

Of course. Of course it’s about Elena. The air seems to thin around her. Her chest feels tight, like she’s stepped into freezing water. But Harper forces a smile, eyes fixed somewhere over Damon’s shoulder. 

“Yeah,” she says, shrugging like it’s nothing. “It’s a deal.” She turns to pour herself another coffee, realizing she already downed the last one like it was a shot. “I’ll pick you up at 7,” she adds, trying to keep it breezy. 

“No,” Damon replies, firm. “I’ll pick you up. You’re not driving.”

“I won’t drink.”

“I don’t care.”

Harper bristles. “You’re drinking now, and it’s barely past noon.” 

Damon raises an eyebrow, opens his mouth to reply—but then just exhales, long and tired. “Fine. Seven sharp. Don’t be late.”

His phone buzzes on the counter. The name Elena flashes on the screen. Of course.

He downs the rest of his bourbon and tosses a few bills onto the bar—more than necessary. Just as he turns to go, he gives her a once-over.

“You should wear red,” he says, voice unreadable.

And then he’s gone, raising the phone to his ear as he disappears out the door. 

From the other end of the bar, Trudy leans over her empty glass with a mean smile. “That man will ruin you, Harper. More than you already are.”

Harper doesn’t respond. Can’t. Her throat tightens.

Trudy rises unsteadily from her stool, grabbing her purse. “Quit looking for someone to save you.”

Then she stumbles out the door, sunlight swallowing her up. Harper watches her go, jaw clenched. After a moment, she reaches behind the bar, rips off her red cardigan, and tosses it onto a stool like it burned her. She doesn’t know if she’s angry, ashamed, or both. 

****

Harper adjusts the strap of her long, black maxi dress as they walk up the steps of the Lockwood mansion. Her heels click in rhythm with Damon’s boots, but their strides never quite sync. 

The lights are too bright, and Harper’s head is still pounding from how loud she blasted the stereo on the ride here with Damon. He tried to make small talk, but Harper hates small talk—especially with shameless flirts like Damon Salvatore. 

She could tell he was off today. His mind was elsewhere, even when he stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of her. She’d slipped into one of Jackie’s old dresses—low back, slit up the side, and let her braids out into loose curls framing her face. Damon only gave her a once-over and a smirk before muttering something about “getting this over with.” 

Now, under Lockwood's blinding chandeliers, she forces her shoulders back and her chin up. If he wants to be distant, fine. Two can play that game. 

Inside, a sea of pearls and tuxedos flood the Lockwood foyer, reminding Harper so sharply of her dream that a cold sweat breaks out beneath her dress. She glances at Damon, expecting him to catch her fluster with his usual sharp gaze—but instead, he’s staring across the room, fixed on Elena Gilbert. 

And just like that, Harper knows exactly where his head’s been all night. 

For fuck’s sake—he just bought her a car. How can she mean nothing to him? The thought hits her like a sucker punch, pushing all remnants of her disturbing dream from her mind, leaving her hot and sour. She’s not one to get territorial, but some strange, ugly instinct coils tight in her chest, making her feel betrayed. 

Sighing, Harper reminds herself of her place in this world: the rich play their games and let the poor get poorer. Maybe she’s the idiot who thought she’d get to hold a winning hand. 

Before she can stew too long, a familiar voice cuts through the chatter. 

“Harper! There you are.” 

Her mother glides toward her in some flowy pastel thing, like the last decade of estrangement never happened. The crowd parts for Lily Bradshaw as though she’s Mystic Falls royalty, which—technically—she is. 

They exchange pleasantries so fake Harper’s teeth hurt. She’s already calculating the quickest escape route when Carol Lockwood appears, her smile sharp enough to skin a rabbit. 

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Carol says sweetly. “But then again, I suppose charity events are… aspirational for some.” 

Carol’s gaze slides over Harper’s dress, lip curling with disgust. 

Harper feels the fragile thread holding her together snap in her chest. The snarl rises halfway up her throat. She’s about to pounce on Carol when Damon steps smoothly between them. 

“Carol, Lily—always a pleasure,” he purrs, arm ghosting back just enough to brush Harper’s hip and keep her from lunging. “I was planning to talk numbers with you both—Bradshaw land rights, boring stuff, I know…” 

The touch is so light Harper almost doesn’t feel it, but the roughness of his fingertips send a shiver up her spine, a cool wash pouring over her. If she had attacked Carol like she did her Aunt, she’d be in jail right now. The warning from her dream crashes back: The anger in your heart warms you now…but it will leave you cold in your grave. 

Carol’s expression shifts from condescension to cautious interest. Lily tilts her head, curious. Damon keeps talking about finance until both women nod along. Then, without turning fully around, he murmurs just for Harper: “Careful, Kitty. Your claws are out.” 

Harper’s eyes almost roll right out of her head. But he’s right—her hands are clenched into fists and her shoulders are rolled so far forward like a cat about to pounce. She relaxes, sidesteps him, then heads for the food table before she makes good on her first impulse. 

She loads her plate with the least fussy things she can find despite the glamour of the feast. Cheeses, crackers, fruit—safe, ordinary things—piled high as though they could shield her. Perched near the edge of the room like a vulture, she watches the glittering crowd from a distance, the clatter and clink of champagne glasses blurring into background noise. 

She’s mid-bite when her eyes snag on her father across the room. Neil Bradshaw, all smiles, chatting amiably with two men in tailored suits. He claps one on the back, laughter loud enough to carry. Harper’s throat goes dry when she realizes he’s already cutting across the room—headed straight for her. She swallows hard, the cracker scratching down dry, and coughs into her fist. Wiping the crumbs from her hand, she straightens up like a soldier at attention, setting her plate aside and bracing for the scolding she knows is coming. 

Neil Bradshaw stops just short of her, letting his gaze rake over her dress, her posture, her very existence, like he’s checking for defects in a product he once owned. 

“Couldn’t even manage a plate without crumbs on your dress?” he says jokingly, voice carrying just enough for the men behind him to hear before they turn away, smirking into their glasses.

Harper swallows down the acid rising in her throat, and forces her hands behind her back before they curl into fists. 

“Good to see you too, Dad.” 

His jaw ticks, but the smile doesn’t budge—the politician’s smile, fixed and hollow.

“I just spoke to Will,” he says, voice smoothing back into charm. “He’s heading to campus this weekend. Your mother and I think you should join him.” 

Harper blinks, certain she misheard. “I’m not a babysitter. He can handle himself.” 

A vein pulses in Neil’s temple, the only crack in his composure. He exhales slowly, the picture of restraint. “It’s not babysitting,” he corrects, clipped. “Your mother wants you to look around. See if you like the campus.” 

Harper stares, her silence stretching too long. College? Now? 

Neil’s smile thins, patience fraying. “We want you at Duke, Harper. To get a degree.” 

She’s taken aback, suddenly aware of the man in front of her, with his greying hair and wrinkled skin. For a moment, he doesn’t look like the polished Bradshaw patriarch, but like someone worn thin from holding too many strings taut.

Her mouth opens, then closes again. “I thought you didn’t give handouts?” 

“That was a long time ago.” Neil’s smile doesn’t waver, but his eyes flash with warning. “The Bradshaw name is plummeting. This is an opportunity for you to fix your mistakes and help our family.”  

Harper huffs a bitter laugh, the sound more like a choke. She wants to tell him exactly where he can shove his ‘opportunity,’ but before she can even begin, a familiar figure cuts in. 

Damon appears at Neil’s side like it’s the most natural thing in the world, clapping a hand on his shoulder with practiced charm. “Neil Bradshaw—just the man I wanted. Let me introduce you to my good friend, Alaric Saltzman. We were just talking about the importance of preserving local history.” 

Neil takes one last look at Harper, his hard eyes sinking deep, promising this conversation isn’t over. “You’ll thank me for this one day.”

Then he turns away, slipping into smooth conversation with Alaric as Damon shifts into Harper’s line of sight, his expression dark with intent.

“I did my end of the deal,” he murmurs, voice low enough for only her to hear.

Damon pulls Harper firmly beside him, steering her toward the gardens. But Harper isn’t in the gardens. She isn’t even in Mystic Falls. She’s stuck in her own head, the weight of her father’s words pressing down on her chest like a stone. The Bradshaw name is tarnished? Her mistakes? She might have been part of that family once, but how dare he act as though he knew her now—closer than a stranger on the street.

All that man ever gave her was false security, false hope, just to rip it away in her most formative years. As a child she wasn’t allowed anger. But now? Now it festers so deep it feels like one wrong breath might make it all boil over—

“Elena!” Damon exclaims suddenly, a devilish smirk tugging his lips and yanking Harper out of her storm.

Elena and Caroline stand side by side in shimmering dresses, their expressions composed, unshakable. Elena offers Harper a polite half-smile, but it falters when her gaze dips to Harper’s clenched fists, skin splitting into half-moon cuts under her nails. 

Harper forces her hands to relax, scratching absently at her wrist instead—a nervous tick she’s never managed to break. 

Caroline, unsurprisingly, speaks first. “Aren’t you going to say happy birthday?” she asks, nose tilted up, every inch the queen bee. 

“Of course. Happy birthday, Blondie.” Damon’s arm snakes around Harper’s waist, his grip just shy of possessive. 

Harper tilts her head up at him, a rush of heat in her chest—only to realize, with horror curdling into disgust, that his eyes aren’t on her. They never were. Instead, he’s looking at Elena, expectantly. 

And just like that, any scrap of fragile hope she’d been holding onto burns to ash in her throat, leaving only a bitter taste. She shouldn’t be surprised. She signed up for this deal. She knew Damon loved Elena. Her stomach twists, but she forces her lips into something resembling a smile. If this is a performance, then fine—she’ll play her part.

“Actually,” Harper says lightly, slipping her hand up Damon’s chest as though she means it. Elena’s eyes flicker again. “Why don’t you two catch up? Damon was just telling me all about what Stefan is hiding from Klaus.”

Damon’s smirk falters a fraction, but Harper doesn’t wait to see his comeback. She pats his chest once—too sharp to be affectionate—and turns on her heel, leaving him and Elena standing in a suddenly awkward silence. It feels good stickling Damon, especially with something Elena doesn’t know. For once, Harper has the upper hand.

She drifts deeper into the gardens, the laughter and champagne chatter muffled by hedge walls. Her thoughts knot and snarl in her head, bitter and hot, when a flash of pale blonde catches at the edge of her vision. The woman moves with purpose, vanishing behind a hedge wall before Harper can get a good look.

For reasons she can’t explain—maybe curiosity, maybe instinct—Harper follows. Heels crunch against gravel, her black dress swishing as she rounds corner after corner until she finds herself by the old stone fountain, its water glinting like glass.

And there they are.

Rebekah lounges on the fountain’s lip, laughter spilling effortlessly from her lips, while Klaus sits beside her, head tilted back, grinning like a man with no care in the world. For a moment Harper thinks she’s stumbled into another dream—this strange, gilded family tableau that doesn’t belong in Mystic Falls.

But then Klaus’s eyes snap toward her, sharp and knowing, and Harper realizes she’s not dreaming at all. 

“There’s my favorite Bradshaw.” His voice rolls out warm, mocking, like he’s been expecting her all along.

“Harper!” Rebekah is on her feet in an instant, skirts swishing, and before Harper can even react, the blonde throws her arms around her. She hugs her so tightly Harper swears her lungs might burst. 

“Rebekah, you’re… alright.” Harper stares, caught off-guard, stiff in the embrace. Rebekah’s warmth doesn’t quite add up—their last encounter left Harper unsure of where they stood, and suspicion prickles under her skin.

“Of course I am.” Rebekah rolls her eyes, as if nothing in the world could stop her. “Come sit. We decided to bring the party outdoors.”

And somehow, Harper ends up sprawled on the stone fountain edge, face-up between Rebekah and Klaus Mikaelson, staring at the moon while words slip out of her mouth too easily. She hears herself spilling the details of the night—the spat with Damon, Elena’s look, every barb and sting. 

“That prick!” Rebekah exclaims, outrage in her tone. 

Klaus just laughs, popping open another bottle of champagne. A knowing smile tugs at the corner of his lips, as though none of this surprises him. 

“You should accept your father’s offer,” he says after a long swig. “Money is ever so fickle, love. Here today, gone tomorrow. But people?” He leans down, eyes glinting, voice softer now. “People are far easier to discard. Take advantage of what you’re given. The family forgives.” 

The words hook deep, too close to the bone. Accepting would feel like surrendering to the Bradshaws, yet she never signed up for their public relations games. Still—the thought needles her—she could take the money, milk their sudden generosity, then vanish for good. Never speak to them again.

But then there’s Will…

“When will we see our family again, Nik?” Rebekah interrupts, twirling her hair around her finger and biting into a chocolate-covered strawberry she’s pilfered from the party. 

“As soon as I find Stefan, sister.” Klaus sighs, tilting his face to the moon. His eyes catch the light, a blue so sharp it glows amber at the edges.

It hits her all at once—she knows where Stefan is hiding, where he’s hiding what Klaus wants. The secret feels like a live wire under her skin, buzzing louder with every passing second. If she opened her mouth now, she’d be betraying Damon. If she kept it shut, she’d be playing Klaus a fool. 

Her stomach twists. Who even was the enemy anymore? Damon, who used her as a pawn? Or Klaus, who everyone but Rebekah seemed to despise. The thought curdles in her chest until nausea claws its way up her throat. She pushes to her feet, desperate for air, for distance, for anything to drown out the weight of what she knows.

“I’m gonna get some more wine.” It’s a flimsy excuse, but she points toward the house and staggers to her feet, needing distance before the truth spills out. 

Rebekah just nods happily, oblivious. Klaus watches her go, head cocked, suspicion narrowing his gaze—until Rebekah grabs a fistful of his hair and twists. 

“Nik, you need a haircut. You look like a mangy dog.”

Klaus hisses, but Harper doesn’t hear the rest. She’s already hurrying toward the house, heels biting into the gravel, her heartbeat loud in her ears like prey running from the hunt. 

The house is a few yards away, but she doesn’t make it. A hand clamps over her mouth, yanking her backward into the dark hedge wall. Her muffled scream dies against a palm that smells of leather and iron. The garden lights vanish, replaced by shadow, and in the next breath—she’s gone.

Notes:

Sorry (not sorry at all actually) for the cliffhanger lol. Next chapter shit goes down. I'm happy I have it already planned out, so it'll make the writing go much faster. I tried portraying how closed off and moody Damon gets in this chapter, so sorry if ya'll were wanting them to be a power couple lol. I hope you all have a great start of fall, and if you're in school, happy back to school. Make your mental health, or your hobbies, or whatever you like to do a priority this year :)

See you in the next chapter!

Lots of Love,
-hBunzie <3