Olde Vampires—Mikaelsons
Three simple words, yet they meant so much to him.
He exhaled softly, the name tugging at memories older than Hogwarts itself.
That the school possessed this edition was astonishing—and dangerous.
If the wizarding community had begun dabbling with the magic in that book again, he would have to remind them why he had hunted down its last possessors.
With careful fingers, he turned the pages. The yellowed parchment crackled under his touch.
His mind was ahead of his fingers, racing through his memory and recalling the first time he read through the book.
He was but a boy back then, yet Elijah remembered each word with perfect clarity—a benefit of Occlumency.
The Mikaelsons: a family of fabled origins, said to be the progenitors of vampirism. Their dominion, steeped in primal magic, is whispered to surpass mortal comprehension. Histories paint them as unkillable, cursed by a Dark Magic so potent it transcends all known boundaries…
He read on. Each sentence was based on half-truths and rumours, but it was pretty much spot on.
There were mentions of The Original Witch and the Ritual of Immortality.
Accounts of the siblings who had once torn through medieval Europe.
Tales of unspeakable power and unstoppable hunger, as unstoppable as the tides.
In many ways, it was accurate, but in more ways, it was incomplete.
They had no idea what truly transpired… nor how deeply Niklaus's hunger ran.
His gaze flicked further down the page:
As of now, the family has all but vanished into myth, yet references surface in hushed corners of magical scholarship, labelling them the darkest and most terrible magical creatures to have ever lived…
Elijah paused, letting the words settle in the quiet air. He reflected on those days.
Wars were waged every other day—he even started a few himself. Entire villages were left in ruin, and the name Mikaelson was carried on the lips of fearful men.
Indeed, we have earned more than our share of terror.
The text concluded with an ominous final line:
Of the fabled siblings, none is said to be more disquieting than The Worst of the Worst—ᚲᛟᛚ ᛗᛁᚲᚨᛖᛚᛋᛟᚾ—who holds magic like us. Should he walk among us, we would be wise never to forget that behind his calm façade lies a predator older than time…
Elijah felt a momentary tightening in his chest, a swirl of conflicting emotions.
He snapped the book shut, expression unreadable.
A predator he was—he would never deny that.
But even he had a code.
His courtesy was not merely a veil.
It was the last remnant of his humanity—something he wouldn't let go, as he proved to his brother.
He stared at the closed cover, feeling the ancient magic in the air.
Thoughts churned.
How to proceed? Destroy the pages?
Perhaps not so brash.
The better course might be to hide the book away more thoroughly—or break the reference from it.
The wards seemed to hide it well enough. Yet leaving it here is a gamble.
His mind returned to the fleeting conversation with Marie Slater earlier that evening, the library practice, her enthralled expression.
The memory softened him.
No. If it remains, someone could eventually find it, especially in times like these, with so many seeking knowledge in the face of rising darkness…
Elijah inhaled, running a finger over the book's spine.
At length, he decided to destroy it.
If he ever needed the text inside the book, he could easily recall it after all.
Hopefully, it is the last copy.
Carefully, he extended his power once more and watched as the ancient tome crumbled to dust between his fingers, the magic within dissipating like morning mist. Not even ashes remained—a thorough destruction befitting the gravity of its contents.
He stepped back, regarding his work. Better to keep my legend in the past where it belongs.
Footsteps on the far side of the shelves broke him from his reverie.
A flicker of lamplight glowed, accompanied by a soft cough—Madam Pince making her rounds, no doubt.
Silently, Elijah glided deeper into the shadows.
With a single jump, a fluid motion, he ascended the tall shelves, perched silently among the rafters like a wraith.
Once her footsteps receded, Elijah dropped noiselessly back to the stone floor.
He began to leave, ghosting through the corridor of locked tomes.
The wards parted easily for him once more, as though tiptoeing around a sleeping dragon—or vampire.
Re-emerging into the main library, Elijah paused, letting the subdued bustle of late-evening students wash over him.
Stressed pairs of fifth-years studied for O.W.L.s, and older students revised for N.E.W.T.s—no one sparing a glance for the tall Ravenclaw who passed them by.
The events of the evening cast a thoughtful shadow on his mind.
The mention of Mikaelsons in Hogwarts' library was unexpected—yet the knowledge that someone placed that hidden copy here intrigued him.
Who would embed such a reference behind such meticulously crafted wards? Who would dare?
In the corridor beyond, he heard laughter echo from the direction of the Great Hall—students finishing dinner, perhaps heading to their common rooms.
Outside the library's threshold, the magical sconces flickered, painting the stone walls with dancing light.
The entire castle thrummed with an undercurrent of tension—Umbridge's tyranny, the unknown threat of the Dark Lord, and the rebellious undercurrent fuelled by Dumbledore's absence.
And now there is myself, he thought with amusement.
Yes, the game would start anew, and there would be war.
With that final thought, Elijah vanished into the thronged corridors.
§§§
If you knew where this was going, then I offer you my deepest congratulations.
I am sorry for not uploading on time, but you should all know that life is often hectic like that.
It is my hope that by next week, I will be able to write freely.
Now, if you have not added this piece of fiction in your libraries, I will have you remedy that.
If you could also offer a stone of power for this work, I shall be thankful.