Invisible String | TVD x WIZARDING WORLD

LET'S GO MEET OUR DAUGHTER

(AUTHOR'S POV)

"Phineas?"

Caroline Forbes turned toward the window, brows furrowed.

Perched on the sill, bathed in pale morning light, was Phineas—head cocked, golden eyes gleaming—with a letter clutched in his beak. A thick, cream-colored envelope, sealed with crimson wax that glinted like fresh blood.

Caroline untied the letter gently from Phineas's beak. He gave a short hoot—somewhere between irritated and self-important—before taking off in a swirl of feathers and wind.

She cracked the wax seal with her thumb. The parchment inside was neat but rushed, ink slightly smudged at the edges, as if written with trembling hands.

Hey Care-Bear,

Miss me?
Because I certainly do.
(Maybe not you in particular—more like the version of you that knows what she's doing and can save me from social doom.)

Now don't get too excited, but there's this thing.
This Moonlit Courting Ball. Sounds romantic, right? Sounds like something you'd be all over? Because it's your thing.
Not mine. I plan exactly nothing. I ruin things. (In style. You know this.)

Anyway—plot twist—I've been "selected" (ew) as one of the lucky few to organize it. One student per year, per house. Yay unity. Yay Hogwarts traditions. Yay me crying into my cauldron.

Like... what do I even do?
Where do I even begin?

The others? I know of them. Angelina I kinda like. Draco I kinda don't. The rest? I wouldn't recognize them if they hexed me in the hallway. I'm supposed to plan some grand, magical event with people I've barely spoken to and act like I'm... what? A functioning extrovert?

I need help. Actual, real, clipboard-wielding, chart-making, snack-scheduling help.

P.S.
Tell Dad I'm perfectly fine—no need to spiral over the whole "tribrid disaster" thing. I've got it under control (...ish). Seriously, he needs to stop googling magical emergencies and ancient curses like it's his full-time job. Also, I'm counting on you to explain him—spend more time with Elena than worrying about me.

I love you both. So much.
And I really wanna come back soon. Wish December would just hurry up already.

Oh—and don't forget, my birthday's tomorrow.
Yes, gifts are expected.
Yes, I will be checking.
No, socks don't count.

Love always,
Your perfect mess.
Dad's little gremlin.

~~~~~~

It was unusual of Damon Salvatore to get teary-eyed—ridiculously unusual, in fact. Yet here he was, standing by the window, clutching a crumpled letter with smudged ink and glitter at the corners, and blinking too fast for it to be casual.

Tiny drops formed at the corners of his eyes.
One fell. He didn't even pretend it was the wind.

"She's all grown up," Caroline said gently from the armchair, sipping her tea like her chest wasn't aching too.

"No doubt," Damon replied, his voice quiet—rough like gravel, but soft around the edges.
He folded the letter again, slower this time. Like it might vanish if he moved too quickly.

"She used to chew on crayons. Now she's signing off as a tribrid gremlin."

Caroline laughed softly. "You should be proud."

"I am proud," he said, and this time, he didn't hide the emotion in his voice. "I just... wasn't ready for her to grow up this fast."

Caroline leaned her head against the armrest, watching him. "We never are."

Damon glanced out the window again. "She said it's her birthday tomorrow."

"I saw that," Caroline smiled knowingly. "And no, your plan of sending just a 'cool antique dagger' and calling it a day is not happening."

"First, it's silver plated," Damon said, the usual sarcasm on his tongue—but something sparkled behind it this time. Something brighter.

Caroline tilted her head, catching the shift in his tone.

"Second," he added, and now that shimmer had bloomed fully in his eyes, "I'm actually planning something else."

Caroline lowered her cup slowly. "Oh?"

Damon just grinned, boyish and dangerous and completely full of it.

"Pack your bags, luv," he said, stepping past her toward the bookshelf, grabbing his jacket with casual flair. "We're going to meet our daughter."

Caroline stared at him. Mouth slightly open. Heart slightly unsteady.

"You serious?" she whispered, hope blooming like moonlight on a frozen lake.

"Dead serious," Damon said, turning back to face her. "Let's give her an Eighteenth of December surprise."

Caroline got to her feet. "Damon, she's at a protected academy. You can't just walk in—"

"Oh, I'm not walking, Care. I'm crashing the wards with style."

She groaned but couldn't help the grin that broke across her face. "You're impossible."

"I'm a Salvatore. It's in the branding."

~~~~~~~

"Are you sure you don't want to come along?" Damon asked softly, lingering near the doorway with keys in hand.

Elena looked up from her mug of lukewarm tea. "Damon... you're her father."

He raised an eyebrow. "And you're—?"

"I'm not her mom," she said gently, firmly. "It's Caroline. It's always been Caroline."

Damon looked down. "That's because—"

"I was in a deep sleep for almost all her life?" Elena finished for him, her voice calm, steady.

He nodded, silent.

But she shook her head, a wistful smile curling on her lips. "No, Damon. Even if I hadn't been... it still would've been her. I believe that."

He blinked. Once. Twice. Not quite trusting his voice.

"There's not just an invisible string between her and you," Elena said quietly, eyes soft with certainty. "There's one between her and Caroline too. Something old. Something real. I don't know what you call it—fate, destiny, cosmic irony—but it's there. And one day, you'll feel it too."

Damon swallowed hard. The room felt too full and too quiet all at once.

Elena rose, placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Go. Surprise your daughter. And don't forget the cupcakes."