Chapter Text
Whoever thought putting a pack of werewolves and four Originals into the same room was a good idea deserved to be locked in a room with them for twenty-four hours.
Because somehow, despite everyone supposedly being there for the exact same reason, they had accomplished absolutely nothing.
Well.
Nothing except arguing.
A lot.
Derek stood near one of the compound’s large windows, arms crossed as he watched everyone with the same exhausted expression he’d worn since arriving.
Every few minutes he’d contribute something useful.
“Track her.”
“Bloody smart of you.”
He'd clench his jaw and then he’d go back to judging everyone with his eyebrows.
Honestly, it was impressive.
Across the room, Scott was attempting—for the fifth time—to explain why they shouldn’t immediately start threatening every witch in New Orleans.
Klaus looked moments away from throwing him through a wall.
“Your morality is unhelpful,” Klaus informed him.
Scott frowned.
“We can’t just attack innocent people.”
Klaus stared.
Then stared harder.
“You assume I care whether they are innocent.”
“You should.”
“I do not.”
“You should.”
“I don’t.”
“You—”
“I have lived for one thousand years.”
“And?”
“And I am correct.”
Scott looked personally offended.
Isaac buried his face in his hands.
Liam was openly taking bets with himself on who would snap first.
His money was on Klaus.
Peter’s was too.
Speaking of Peter…
Peter Hale was trying very hard not to become distracted.
Very.
Very hard.
Unfortunately, Klaus Mikaelson existed.
And apparently the Original Hybrid had decided he disliked Peter on principle.
Every time Peter spoke, Klaus glared.
Every time Peter smirked, Klaus glared harder.
Every time Peter casually referred to Stiles as “sweetheart” or “my favorite disaster,” Klaus looked like he was considering homicide.
Peter found this endlessly entertaining.
“You know,” Peter said casually from his chair, “for someone who insists he isn’t emotionally attached, you’re glaring at me an awful lot.”
Klaus’s eyes narrowed.
Peter smiled.
Klaus narrowed them further.
“Oh, definitely attached.”
A growl echoed through the room.
Liam snorted.
Isaac nearly choked.
Kol laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair.
“Oh, this is brilliant.”
Nobody listened to him.
Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the room, Rebekah had somehow become engaged in an actual conversation with Lydia.
It was perhaps the most productive discussion happening.
“…so your mother created all of you?” Lydia asked.
“Unfortunately.”
“And she’s trying to kill you.”
“Frequently.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“You have no idea.”
Lydia nodded thoughtfully.
“Fair.”
Elijah, meanwhile, was developing a headache.
An actual headache.
He hadn’t had one of those in centuries.
And somehow this collection of people had managed it within hours.
At least they were making progress.
Small progress.
Tiny progress.
But progress.
They knew Esther had taken Stiles.
They knew it was deliberate.
They knew it had something to do with a prophecy.
And they knew she considered Stiles important enough to remove from the board entirely.
The problem was figuring out why.
Peter finally leaned forward.
“Let’s think about this rationally.”
Everyone looked suspicious.
Peter ignored them.
“Esther takes Stiles.”
“Correct,” Elijah said.
“Not Klaus.”
“Also correct.”
Peter tapped a finger against his knee.
“So she wants Stiles specifically.”
“Obviously.”
“Why?”
Nobody answered.
Peter continued.
“If this prophecy involves Klaus and Stiles…”
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“Then she’s removing one half of the equation.”
Klaus’s jaw tightened.
Peter noticed.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
Peter hummed.
“Maybe she knows something about Stiles that we don’t.”
“Such as?” Rebekah asked.
Peter considered.
Then shrugged.
“A memory.”
The room went still.
Elijah froze.
Completely.
Peter noticed immediately.
So did Klaus.
And Rebekah.
And Kol.
Slowly, Elijah turned toward Peter.
“A memory.”
It wasn’t a question.
Peter sat up straighter.
“Oh.”
Elijah looked suddenly distant.
Like he wasn’t seeing the room anymore.
Like he was looking somewhere far away.
Centuries away.
“Elijah?” Rebekah asked.
Elijah's eyes shifted toward Klaus.
“Brother.”
Klaus frowned.
“What?”
Elijah hesitated.
For perhaps the first time all day.
Then—
“Do you remember a boy?”
Silence.
Klaus blinked.
“A boy.”
“Yes.”
Klaus looked irritated.
“I have known many boys.”
“No.”
Elijah stepped forward.
“This was before Henrik died.”
The room quieted.
Even Kol stopped smiling.
The mention of Henrik always did that. It dragged ghosts into the room.
Elijah’s voice softened.
“We were human.”
Klaus stared.
Elijah continued.
“You disappeared after one of Mikael’s punishments.”
A punishment.
That was what Elijah called them.
Klaus remembered them for what they truly were.
Beatings.
Bruises.
Fear.
Pain.
Klaus’s expression darkened.
“I remember. I wanted to be far away from him.”
“You were gone all day,” Elijah states.
Klaus nodded.
“You returned speaking about a friend.”
Klaus opened his mouth—
Then stopped.
Something shifted.
A memory.
Small.
Faded.
Forgotten.
A forest.
Sunlight filtering through emerald leaves, painting the ground gold.
A laugh.
Not mocking.
Not cruel.
Not edged with contempt the way Mikael’s voice always was.
Just happy.
Warm.
Real.
Klaus’s breath caught.
The room disappeared.
And suddenly he wasn’t a thousand-year-old hybrid.
He was eleven years old again.
Covered in dirt.
Trying desperately not to cry after Mikael’s latest beating.
Lost in the woods.
Alone.
Until—
A boy.
Small.
Thin.
Brown eyes bright with impossible life.
Moles scattered across his face like constellations.
A strange smile that always looked like it was moments away from becoming a grin.
A strange accent.
A strange name.
The first thing Klaus remembered feeling was confusion.
The second was relief.
Because the boy had sat beside him on a fallen tree as though Klaus wasn’t something broken.
Hadn’t asked why his eyes were red.
Hadn’t asked about the bruises hidden beneath his sleeves.
Hadn’t looked at him with pity.
Or fear.
Or disgust.
He had simply stayed.
Week after week.
Meeting him in secret.
Talking about everything and nothing.
Laughing.
Existing beside him without demanding anything in return.
And for the first time in his young life, Klaus had felt seen.
Not as Mikael’s disappointment.
Not as the weak son.
Not as the mistake.
Just Klaus.
The memory crashed into him with devastating force.
Not because it was painful.
But because it wasn’t.
It was one of the happiest memories of his childhood.
One of the only places where fear didn’t follow him.
One of the only times he remembered feeling safe enough to breathe.
And somehow that hurt more.
Klaus remembered muddy boots kicking through piles of leaves.
The two of them racing through the trees until they collapsed laughing.
Remembered Stiles teaching him strange little tricks.
Tiny sparks dancing over his fingertips like captive stars.
Magic that should have frightened him but never did because it came from him.
From the boy who smiled like sunlight.
Klaus remembered laughing so hard his stomach hurt.
Remembered forgetting, if only for a few precious hours, that Mikael existed.
Remembered what hope felt like.
Remembered believing there might actually be a future where he wasn’t afraid every waking moment of his life.
Across the room, Rebekah’s hand flew to her mouth.
She remembered too.
Not the boy himself.
But Klaus.
Young Klaus.
Coming home smiling. Coming home excited.
Coming home talking endlessly about a friend in the woods.
A friend none of them had ever met. A friend who had made her brother happy.
The realization sent a chill down her spine.
Kol’s grin had vanished entirely.
He watched Klaus carefully, unease settling in his chest.
Because Klaus looked wounded.
Not angry.
Not furious.
Wounded.
And that was infinitely worse.
"The boy showing him little sparks of light dancing between his fingers.
The boy whispering secrets.
The boy saying—
“Magic isn’t about power. It’s about believing.”
Klaus closed his eyes.
His chest hurt.
Because he remembered something else.
One day he went back.
And the boy wasn’t there.
At first, he wasn’t worried.
Stiles was strange.
Always late.
Always distracted.
Always appearing with some ridiculous story.
So Klaus waited.
Until sunset.
Then darkness.
Then the next day.
And the day after that.
He kept returning.
Again. And again. And again.
Each visit carrying a little less hope and a little more dread.
The clearing became quieter. Emptier. Colder.
The fallen tree where they sat became just a tree again.
The woods stopped feeling magical.
And eventually Klaus understood the terrible truth that children learn far too young.
Sometimes people leave.
Sometimes they disappear.
Sometimes there is no explanation.
No goodbye. No closure. Nothing.
Just absence.
A hollow ache where happiness used to live.
Then Henrik died.
Then the transition happened.
Then blood and grief and immortality swallowed everything.
Centuries passed.
Wars. Kingdoms. Lovers. Enemies.
Entire generations lived and died.
And eventually…
He forgot.
Completely forgot.
Buried beneath a thousand years of violence and loss.
Until now.
Klaus’s eyes snapped open.
Blue burning.
“No.”
The word came out broken.
Disbelieving.
Peter watched carefully.
“What?”
Klaus looked almost shaken.
Actually shaken.
Something none of his siblings had seen in a very long time.
“The boy.”
His voice was quiet.
“The boy from the woods.”
Elijah nodded slowly.
Though inwardly, dread coiled in his stomach.
Because if Esther knew this memory mattered—
If she had somehow discovered it—
Then Stiles was far more important to whatever game she was playing than any of them had realized.
And Esther never moved pieces without purpose.
Klaus swallowed.
A thousand years of memory crashing together.
The familiarity. The pull. The obsession.
The sense of recognition.
The feeling that Stiles belonged beside him.
Not because he had met him recently.
But because…
He had already known him.
Long before any of them became monsters.
Long before immortality.
Long before everything.
And suddenly every instinct he’d dismissed made horrifying sense.
The immediate trust.
The impossible connection.
The way losing Stiles felt less like losing someone new and more like losing someone he had spent a millennium searching for without realizing it.
A boy he had mourned without remembering.
A boy he had never truly stopped missing.
Klaus whispered the realization aloud.
“…it was him.”
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Foreboding.
Because the memory was beautiful.
Because it was precious.
Because it was filled with sunlight and laughter and a version of Klaus that no longer existed.
And because Esther had taken that boy.
Again.
For the first time in a thousand years, Klaus remembered what it felt like to wait in the woods for someone who never returned.
The thought settled over the room like a storm.
And for the first time since Stiles disappeared—
Klaus finally understood why losing him felt like losing a piece of himself.
A sharp knock echoed through the compound.
Nobody moved.
Another knock followed.
Then a third.
More insistent.
Everyone blinked.
The timing was almost comical.
Peter frowned.
“Are we expecting someone?”
“No,” Elijah answered immediately.
“Then that’s concerning.”
Kol stood.
“Or entertaining.”
“Those are usually the same thing for you,” Rebekah muttered.
Another knock.
This time accompanied by a voice.
“Hello? We know you’re in there.”
The room froze.
Peter’s eyes got a knowing look.
“That voice…”
Derek looked toward him. “You know them?”
Peter slowly stood.
A grin spreading across his face.
“Oh, this should be interesting.”
Elijah exchanged a wary look with Klaus before moving toward the entrance.
The door opened.
And standing on the other side were two very familiar faces.
Bonnie Bennett.
And Damon Salvatore.
Bonnie folded her arms immediately.
“You know, most people answer their doors before the fifth knock.”
Damon glanced past Elijah into the room.
Saw the collection of werewolves.
Saw the Originals.
Paused.
“Wow.”
He pointed.
“This somehow looks even worse than Peter described.”
Peter looked offended.
“I described it perfectly.”
“You described it as organized.”
“It was a lie.”
“Clearly.”
Bonnie ignored them both.
Her gaze swept the room once before landing on Peter.
“You owe my Grams an apology.”
Peter immediately groaned.
“Oh, come on.”
“No.”
Bonnie pointed at him.
“You showed up at her house asking questions about Stiles.”
“A reasonable thing to do.”
“You woke her up.”
“It was important.”
“You tracked down where Stiles stayed in Mystic Falls when he visited.”
“Also important.”
“You asked for help.”
Peter hesitated.
Then sighed dramatically.
“Yes.”
Bonnie’s eyes narrowed.
“And?” Bonnie says with a knowing grin.
Peter looked physically pained.
“I may have had to grovel.”
Damon barked out a laugh.
“Oh, he definitely groveled.”
Peter glared.
“Sheila Bennett is terrifying.”
“She is,” Bonnie agreed proudly.
“And very protective of her family.”
“Which she reminded me of repeatedly.”
“Good.”
Peter muttered something under his breath.
Bonnie smiled sweetly.
The expression was somehow threatening.
“Anyway,” she said, turning serious. “After Peter explained what happened, Grams agreed we should help.”
The amusement vanished from the room.
Klaus stepped forward immediately.
“You know where Stiles is?”
Bonnie shook her head.
“No.”
Disappointment flashed across several faces.
“But we might be able to find him.”
That got everyone’s attention.
Bonnie glanced toward Damon.
“We came to New Orleans to discuss a plan.”
Damon shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Because apparently every supernatural apocalypse somehow circles back to one sarcastic kid.”
“Stiles,” Scott corrected automatically.
“Yeah, him.”
Bonnie looked around the room.
At the wolves.
At the Originals.
At the tension hanging in the air.
Then she took a slow breath.
“Peter told us everything.”
Her gaze settled briefly on Klaus.
Then Elijah.
Then the rest.
“If Esther took Stiles because of whatever prophecy she’s trying to manipulate, then magic is probably the best way to track her movements.”
Hope flickered through the room for the first time in hours.
Small.
Fragile, but there.
And after everything they had just learned—
It was enough.