Invisible String | TVD x WIZARDING WORLD

THE MOVE-OUT DAY

Dear Diary,

If anyone tells you moving is "fun" or "easy," just punch them. Hard. With a shoe.
I wish I had a spell to make everything go smoothly, but I'm not that lucky. None of us are.

Today, we packed up all of our problems — the Salvatores, the Mikaelsons, and me — and dragged our mess to London.
When I say mess, I mean utter chaos on a level that only supernatural creatures and a witch-child can create.

It all started this morning with Care, who, in her usual overachiever fashion, woke up at 5:30 a.m. bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to supervise the "move." She had two clipboards, three pens, and a bag full of Post-its, each with a color-coded system for what box goes where. She was organized, at least. Too bad the rest of us weren't. She was yelling things like, "Where are your emotional support sweaters?" and "Did you color-code your underpants like I told you?"

My underpants, diary. She wanted them color-coded.
I wanted to cry.

By 6:00 a.m., we were already at each other's throats. Rebekah got into a fight with Kol over his "minimalist" approach to packing. Kol's definition of "minimalist" is tossing everything into garbage bags and calling it "free-spirited."
"Your boots can't just go in there!" Rebekah screamed at him. "You can't just throw things into a bag and label it 'don't touch'! You're not a hippie!"

Kol, of course, shrugged and said, "I've never been a fan of structure."

And Jeremy?
Oh, Jeremy.
He showed up LATE with zero luggage, two bags of flaming hot Cheetos, and a sword he insisted he needed "just in case." I asked in case of what? He shrugged and said, "London." That's it. That was the reasoning.

Care almost passed out. "JEREMY, WE'RE MOVING ACROSS THE WORLD. THIS ISN'T CAMP. THIS ISN'T A FIELD TRIP. THIS IS LITERAL TRANSATLANTIC IMMIGRATION—AND YOU BROUGHT SNACKS AND A KNIFE?"

To which Jeremy responded:
"Yeah, well, at least I didn't forget my vibe."
I— I need a minute.

Stefan was somehow the only sane person in the house. He had all his boxes ready, his documents charmed and organized, and a sad little bag of protein bars labeled "For Diana only" because apparently, he thinks I forget to eat when I'm stressed (which is not wrong). I love him.

But THEN—get this—the kettle exploded.

Yes. The actual kettle.
It was enchanted by Bonnie to pour tea on command, and Dad, in his usual control-freak way, tried to override the spell and make it pour bourbon instead.
So it exploded.
BOOM. Scorch marks. Tea on the ceiling. Smoke. Rebekah yelling "WHY IS THE KITCHEN BLEEDING??" and Klaus threatening to "vaporize the next object that disrespects this family."
It was the kettle, Klaus. Not a sentient enemy.

Then, there was Dad, who spent the entire morning screaming at customs agents. Apparently, bringing "several crates of antiques" (mostly of the questionable variety) and an "odd number of human blood bags" raised concerns. When I heard him yell, "I'm not paying another fine for supernatural family drama," I couldn't help but facepalm. It was too much.

Klaus, being Klaus, had a very Klaus-like reaction to the "moving situation." First, he walked in wearing a silk robe (like we weren't about to haul everything into a car), with his hands in his pockets, looking like he had the whole world under control. But when it came time to pack up his "centuries-old paintings," he nearly started a war with Elijah because Elijah accidentally packed them in a bag full of socks.

"You can't just stuff my art into a sock bag, Elijah!" Klaus shouted, glaring at his brother. "These are priceless!"

Elijah just looked at him, as calm as ever, and said, "I believe the socks are priceless, Klaus. They are vintage. Hand-stitched."

Meanwhile, Rebekah was in the kitchen, having a breakdown because she couldn't find her "perfectly curated" dry shampoo. She stood there crying about "unwanted frizz" and how the London humidity was going to ruin her "flawless appearance." I almost handed her a towel to wipe her tears, but then I realized she was probably going to be fine in an hour, so I just let her be dramatic.

As for me?
I ended up packing half my things alone because no one could make a decision. I put my clothes in a suitcase, my books in another, and made sure Mr. Wiggles and Mr. Vamp were well secured. Then, I helped with the actual magic of carrying boxes down three flights of stairs. Not actual magic (I don't use my powers for mundane things), but you know... the human way. Manual labor.

We got to the airport, and of course, things didn't get any easier. Klaus got into a "heated discussion" with a TSA agent over his leather jacket. "Do you know who I am?" Klaus demanded. Yes, Klaus, we all know who you are. We wish we didn't.

Meanwhile, Kol tried to bring mystery liquids through security. Apparently, the bag labeled "don't question" was filled with blood bags. They tried to take it away, and Kol nearly started a diplomatic incident.

Dad, of course, was off trying to charm his way through any problem that came his way. Half the airport staff now thinks we're some kind of international celebrities. Not because of our fame, but because Dad is so good at getting what he wants when he's in a good mood.

When we finally boarded the plane (thankfully, no one was too disruptive this time), Care lost it. She cried over some broken china we packed, then whispered about how "unrealistic" it was to fly with a group of people who, according to her, were "cursed to cause disaster." I gave her an awkward hug and promised her the china would be fine, even though I knew the real reason it broke wasn't the movers — it was Kol, who had tripped over it while running through the house like a maniac.

We finally landed in London—everyone's hair frizzed, Jeremy lost his boarding pass again, and Klaus almost started a street brawl over the "proper" temperature for tea.

But then, there it was.
Our new home.
A four-story townhouse tucked away on a quiet street. The doors were creaky and the windows a little dusty, but it felt like a new beginning. I think I could get used to it. Not that it's ever quiet, but... it's ours.

We all stood in the living room, unpacked boxes around us, clothes on the floor, pillows on the ceiling. Klaus had already called "dibs" on the balcony room, and Dad claimed the liquor cabinet in his. Kol was in the basement, "for the vibe," and Rebekah took the largest room — no surprise there. Jeremy disappeared to find "where the cool kids hang out" within five minutes of stepping inside.

And Uncle Regulus?
He came to check on us after everything had settled down.
He just stood in the doorway of the living room for a moment, staring at the chaos we had somehow created.

"You deal with all of this?" he asked, eyeing the mess of people who were half-unpacked, half-bickering, and all making a scene.
I shrugged.
"Well, someone has to."
Regulus looked at me for a long time. Then he let out a quiet, almost affectionate sigh.
"I don't know how you do it. But you're managing somehow."

The house was ours now, for better or worse.
And as long as the Salvatores and Mikaelsons didn't kill each other in their sleep, I had a feeling I was going to be okay.
London is our new home. And soon? I'll be at Hogwarts.
But first, I have to survive my family's melodramatic unpacking. Oh, and teach them how to use the washing machine.

Love,

D.S.