Invisible String | TVD x WIZARDING WORLD

I DIDN'T MEAN TO HURT HIM

(Author's POV)
He hadn't meant to stay.
Really.
He was just walking by. That's what he told himself.
Just passing the Quidditch pitch on his way to literally anywhere else. But then the crowd, the noise, the absurdity of Fred Weasley on a megaphone—and he paused.
Just for a second.
Then she appeared.
Diana Salvatore, straddling a broom like she was born to mock gravity.
And Theo, for all his better judgment, leaned against the railing. Just slightly.
It wasn't like he was watching-watching.
Except—he was.
She took off like fire. Effortless. Hair wild, mouth set, eyes sharp like she could cut the sky open with a glare alone.
And Merlin help him—she was good.
The kind of good that made your jaw clench without meaning to. The kind that made you annoyed because it looked too easy, too natural. The kind of good that didn't ask for approval and still got it.
She dipped, twisted, pulled into a dive, then snagged the Snitch like it had personally offended her.
The crowd erupted.
But Theo didn't clap.
Didn't cheer.
Didn't move.
He just watched her hover there, flushed and breathless and... smug.
Like she'd known he was watching all along.
And for a heartbeat—just one—their eyes met.
He didn't smile.
Neither did she.
But something in the air crackled. Not magic. Not wind. Something worse.
Electricity.
He pushed off the railing, turned, and walked away before anyone could say anything—before he could say anything.
Stupid.
Absolutely stupid to come down here.
Because the last thing Theodore Nott needed was a distraction.
And Diana Salvatore was not just a distraction.
She was a bloody hurricane in red and gold.
And hurricanes had no business near him.
~~~~~~~~

(Diana's POV)
We were at the Great Hall when Phineas swooped in, wings all frantic and dramatic, a letter clutched tight in his talons.
"You weren't even this excited when you made the team," Sophie teased, elbowing me with a grin.
"Would've been," I said softly, "if Dad was here to see it."
Phineas dropped the letter, circled once like he was making a show of it, and then took off with a screech that probably translated to "dramatic exit, nailed it."
From Dad.
I didn't wait. Didn't think.
"I'll see you in class," I told Hermione, already halfway up, letter in hand and heart in my throat.
I couldn't read it here. Not in the Great Hall, not under these glowing candles and gossiping whispers. Not when I knew what kind of language might bleed through the parchment—talk of bloodlines, hunger, things too old and too dark for Hogwarts' golden walls.
I tore across the castle, heart racing, and stormed down to the edge of the Black Lake.
Waves lapped lazily at the shore. Wind tugged at my sleeves. I dropped down to the grass, legs crossed, and unfolded the letter with fingers that didn't quite feel steady.

To my Little Gremlin,
So.
First week back and you've already made it into Professor McGonagall's "troublemaker report"?
I'm so proud I could cry.
(Kidding. I haven't cried since 1844. It was a Tuesday. A tragic soup incident. Don't ask.)
Apparently, you and those redheaded twins with too much charisma and no sense of consequence decided to "enhance" the start-of-term feast with what McGonagall described as "an entirely unnecessary and deeply disruptive" fireworks display.
Unnecessary? Sure.
Deeply disruptive? Absolutely.
Would I have done the exact same thing at your age? Without hesitation.
I'm told she wanted me to reprimand you.
Right. Because that's exactly the kind of father I am.
Let's just take a moment to imagine that conversation:
"Sweetheart, how dare you harness chaos and ignite the ceiling in a glorious blaze of rebellion! What shame you've brought to our long line of rule-obliterating, authority-defying supernatural delinquents!"
Please.
You've made your old man proud, D.
Now, on a slightly more serious note (don't get used to it)—how are you holding up, truly?
I know being back at Hogwarts with that particular cocktail of bloodlines coursing through your veins isn't exactly what the therapists would call a "balanced environment."
Then again, we aren't exactly known for balance, are we?
Klaus says the tribrid instincts won't overwhelm you unless you feed them with fear or repression.
He says it like it's easy.
Like growing up with fangs and fury and ancestral trauma is just something you "focus away."
But I know it's not that simple.
I know what it's like when the thirst scratches at your throat in the middle of a conversation.
When the wolf in you wants to snarl at a passing professor for breathing too loud.
When your magic hums just under your skin, waiting—always waiting—for permission to lash out.
And still, you're trying.
You're walking through ancient hallways where everyone wants you to pick a side—light or dark, monster or martyr.
But you, my wickedly brilliant disaster, you're crafting your own category.
And I want you to know: you don't owe anyone explanations.
Not about your power.
Not about your past.
Not about your people.
You are not a burden, not a beast, and definitely not broken.
You're a Salvatore.
You carry centuries of survival in your bones and a laugh like it could raise the dead.
(Which, by the way, please stop doing at school. The last thing I need is another letter from the Ministry about "unauthorized necromantic communication.")
If anything—anything—feels off, if the hunger gets too loud, or if anyone dares say something that so much as sniffs like prejudice, you send word.
You write me.
You scream into the sky.
You set something on fire.
(But maybe not Flitwick. I like him.)
You're never alone in this.
Not with me out here, not with Klaus, not with the long, messy legacy of supernatural bloodlines backing you up like a mafia you didn't ask for.
I love you. Madly. Endlessly. Irritatingly.
Now go raise a little more hell.
P.S. – I will be sending the twins a howler. It's just going to be 45 seconds of me slow-clapping.
P.P.S. – If anyone calls you a "malfoy" or worse, just smile sweetly and say, "My dad eats people like you for brunch." It's true. I have references.
Yours in eternal chaos,
Dad