# The Salvatore School Gymnasium - Evening
The Salvatore School gymnasium looked like someone had decided to host both a séance and the world's most overachieving senior prom. Candles in geometric precision lit the floor like constellations trapped under glass, every wick burning steady despite the drafty old rafters. Sigils glowed faintly on the basketball court, layered protection spells humming so hard in the air that Hope's magic practically bristled in response. Even the hoops were wrapped in silk banners inked with protective runes that pulsed like slow heartbeats.
The entire space thrummed with power—not just magical, but something deeper. Something cosmic. The air itself felt thicker, charged with the kind of energy that made supernatural beings instinctively check their posture and remember their manners.
Hope stopped cold in the doorway, her messenger bag of grimoires slipping from her shoulder to land with a thud against the polished floor. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart hammering against her ribs like a caged bird suddenly sensing freedom.
For once, research could wait. Her throat went dry, her chest tightening in that way that meant something impossible was happening right in front of her.
Because it wasn't the magic that had her frozen. The Salvatore School had seen worse theatrics on a Tuesday. She'd witnessed rituals that could crack the foundation of reality, spells that bent time and space like origami. This was different.
No—what made her breath hitch was the tall figure standing calm and impossibly elegant at the center of the runes. Dark suit tailored to perfection. Crisp lines that spoke of old money and older manners. A presence that filled the room more completely than all the wards combined, as if the very air had been waiting for him to arrive and give it permission to breathe properly.
Hope's voice cracked on a whisper, barely audible above the low hum of protective magic.
"Uncle Elijah?"
The name hung in the air like a prayer, fragile and desperate and weighted with seven years of grief.
He turned at once, the name cutting through the charged atmosphere like a key turning in a lock that had been frozen shut for too long. His composure—the impeccable Mikaelson mask polished over a thousand lifetimes—fractured in an instant. His whole face changed, softened, lit from within by something raw and human and unguarded.
The careful control that defined Elijah Mikaelson simply... melted. His dark eyes went wide, then soft, then bright with unshed tears. His lips parted as if he'd forgotten how to speak, how to breathe, how to exist in a world where she was standing in front of him again.
"Hope," he said, reverent and broken and wondering all at once. Her name sounded like it had been waiting centuries in his mouth, weighted with regret and relief and bone-deep love that had survived even the complete erasure of his memories.
Her knees nearly buckled. She didn't think—didn't calculate, didn't strategize, didn't do anything but move. Every instinct that had kept her alive through seven years of supernatural chaos was screaming at her to be careful, to verify, to protect herself.
She ignored every single one.
Crossing the distance at a run, not because she was a tribrid with speed to burn but because she was a girl who had lost too much and couldn't bear to lose this too. Her feet barely touched the ground, magic crackling around her like visible joy.
She collided with him like a comet finding its orbit, and Elijah caught her effortlessly, folding her into an embrace that was devastatingly careful, like she was breakable porcelain and sacred relic all at once. His arms came around her with the kind of desperate gentleness reserved for miracles you're terrified might disappear.
"I thought—" Her words broke apart against his shoulder, her voice shaking with the force of seven years' worth of suppressed grief. "I thought you were gone forever. That you'd forgotten us. Forgotten me. That I'd lost you the way we lost—"
She couldn't finish. Couldn't say *the way we lost Dad*. Because that wound was still too fresh, too raw, even after all this time.
Elijah's hand slid gently into her hair, his fingers trembling as they carded through the auburn strands. His other arm locked tighter around her, as if he could anchor her to this moment through sheer force of will.
"Never," he said with quiet ferocity, his voice rough with emotion, as though the word itself was a vow written in blood and starlight. "Even when I had lost myself completely—my name, my history, my purpose—something remained. An ache. A hollow space I could not define, could not fill, could not understand."
He pulled back just enough to cup her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away tears she hadn't realized she was crying.
"It was you, Hope. Always you. Even when I didn't remember your name, I remembered the shape of missing you. The weight of love I couldn't place. You were the ghost that haunted every sunrise, the song I couldn't recall but couldn't stop humming."
Hope's breath hitched, her hands fisting in the lapels of his jacket. "But you're here now. You remember. Everything?"
"I remember teaching you watercolors when you were four," Elijah confirmed, his voice soft with wonder, as though each recovered memory was a small miracle. "How you insisted that trees should be purple because green was boring. How you painted seventeen different versions of our family, all holding hands, because you said that's what families were supposed to do."
Hope laughed through her tears, rolling her eyes at herself. "God, I was such a weirdo kid. Purple trees and pink skies and everyone holding hands like some kind of supernatural Brady Bunch."
"You were an artist," Elijah corrected smoothly, his voice warm with paternal pride and amusement. "With a vision of the world as it should be, not as it was. Those purple trees, with the crooked suns and the houses that defied architectural logic, remain the most beautiful landscapes I've ever seen."
Her brows shot up, surprise cutting through the emotion. "Wait—don't tell me you still have those. Please tell me you didn't actually keep my finger paintings for seven years."
A rare, fleeting smile tugged at Elijah's lips, the kind of expression that transformed his entire face and reminded her why her father had once called him the heart of their family.
"Every one. Safely preserved in a climate-controlled facility in Switzerland, along with your first attempt at cursive, the tooth you lost when you were six, and a recording of you singing 'Happy Birthday' in what you insisted was Ancient Greek but was actually complete gibberish."
Hope blinked, then laughed, shaking her head as she swiped at her cheeks. "Of course you did. Leave it to you to store finger paintings like they're Renaissance masterpieces. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is?"
"They are masterpieces," Elijah said simply, his tone so earnest it left no room for argument, so full of love it made her chest ache. "Created by the most important person in my world when she still believed magic was about making beautiful things instead of surviving terrible ones. And they are waiting for the day I may hang them again—properly—in whatever home we build next."
Something fragile flickered across her face, a cautious hope she almost didn't dare to voice. Her eyes searched his face for any trace of doubt, any shadow of the distance that had defined their family for so long.
"We?"
"We," Elijah said without hesitation, every syllable deliberate and unwavering, his hands still framing her face like she was the most precious thing in creation. "The family. Together. All of us. Klaus, Rebekah, Kol, Freya. Always and forever, as it should be. As it will be."
Hope let out a shaky laugh, pressing her forehead to his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne and the comfort of his presence. "You realize that means drama. So much drama. And probably about five family interventions before the week's out. We're not exactly known for our healthy communication skills."
"Indeed," Elijah murmured, smoothing a hand down her back in slow, soothing circles, his voice fond with the dry irony only he could deliver. "But we've always excelled at drama, have we not? It's practically our family motto. Well, that and the occasional bout of world-threatening magical catastrophe."
Hope tilted her head up, smirking through the tears, that familiar Mikaelson defiance sparking in her eyes. "Oh, you're not wrong. Still—next time you decide to disappear for years with a case of supernatural amnesia, maybe give a girl a heads up? You know, just so I don't completely lose my mind carrying the entire dysfunctional family brand on my shoulders while trying to save the world single-handedly?"
Elijah chuckled softly, the sound rich with relief and affection and the kind of bone-deep happiness he'd forgotten he was capable of feeling. "Duly noted, my dear girl. I shall endeavor to be more considerate with my next bout of existential crisis. Perhaps I'll leave detailed notes and a forwarding address."
Hope huffed a laugh, tightening her grip on him until her knuckles went white. "Good. Because I'm not letting you out of my sight again. Not ever. I don't care if you get tired of me following you around like a lost puppy. I don't care if I have to hex you to a chair to keep you here. I'm done losing people I love."
And Elijah, holding her as though she was the most sacred thing he had ever touched, his own voice thick with emotion, simply whispered, "Nor I, you. Never again."
From across the gymnasium, Harry Potter watched the reunion with a warmth that surprised even him. There was something profoundly healing about seeing Hope Mikaelson finally let herself collapse into someone else's arms instead of carrying the apocalypse alone on her shoulders like some kind of supernatural Atlas.
But Harry also saw the moment her sharp intelligence kicked in, when relief gave way to calculation, and the wheels in her mind started turning faster than any spell circle on the floor. He recognized it because he'd seen the same expression on his own face in mirrors after particularly devastating revelations. The moment when survival instincts reasserted themselves and demanded answers.
Hope didn't let go of Elijah, but her eyes narrowed as she glanced at the runes, the candles, the careful positioning of unfamiliar presences standing at respectful distance around the gymnasium. Her voice cut through the heavy air, steady but edged with suspicion.
"Uncle Elijah," she said carefully, her tone shifting into what Caroline privately called her 'tribrid voice'—the one that suggested asking the wrong question might result in someone getting accidentally incinerated. "How are you here? Your memories were gone. Completely erased. You chose to forget us because being family was too painful, because the weight of loving us and losing us was destroying you from the inside out."
Her eyes flicked to Harry, then to the other figures in the shadows, cataloging threats and allies with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd been fighting for her life since she could walk.
"What changed? What made you remember? And don't tell me it was the power of love or some other Hallmark movie nonsense, because magical memory modification doesn't just *undo itself* without serious intervention."
Elijah's face softened, but the complexity behind his dark eyes was unmistakable: love, regret, gratitude, and something almost anticipatory. "That," he said slowly, choosing his words with the care of a diplomat navigating a minefield, "is rather more complicated than you might expect, my dear. And the explanation involves some… extraordinary individuals who've taken a personal interest in our welfare."
His gaze slid toward Harry, who was leaning against the far wall with studied casualness, hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket.
Harry stepped forward at the unspoken invitation, wearing that particular brand of casual confidence that always read less like arrogance and more like a man bracing to drop a bombshell and hoping everyone would still be friends afterward.
"Hope," he began gently, his voice threaded with warmth but anchored in quiet power, "remember that help I said I'd found for your Hollow research? The solution that was going to require some... creative thinking?"
Her eyes snapped to him, pupils dilating with sudden alertness. She knew this tone—this was Harry shifting gears from charming troublemaker to someone carrying the weight of prophecy. This was the voice he'd used when he'd told her about Voldemort, about the war that had shaped his childhood, about the kind of magic that left permanent scars.
"Harry?" she pressed, her grip on Elijah tightening unconsciously. "What's going on? How is Uncle Elijah here? What kind of help are we talking about? And please, for once in your infuriatingly cryptic existence, just give me a straight answer."
"The kind," Harry said, lips quirking into that crooked grin of his, the one that usually meant he was about to say something that would turn her worldview upside down, "that comes with a few… revelations about who I am, why I was always so certain your family drama wasn't going to end in eternal separation, and how I happened to have the phone number for someone who specializes in impossibly complicated magical problems."
Hope's brow arched, her voice sharpening with surgical precision. "Revelations. As in, 'I've been keeping massive secrets and just now decided to tell you about them'? Because I hate those kinds of revelations, Harry. I really, really hate them. I've had enough life-changing surprises to last several lifetimes."
Harry winced, rubbing the back of his neck in that gesture she'd learned meant he was about to apologize for something that wasn't entirely his fault but that he felt responsible for anyway. "Several things, actually," he admitted with unapologetic honesty. "But the most important one is that I'm not entirely human. Well—I am, technically. Just with some... extracurricular DNA."
Hope went very still, the kind of stillness that preceded either violence or a complete emotional breakdown. Her eyes narrowed like a hawk locking onto prey. "What kind of extracurricular DNA, Harry?"
Before Harry could open his mouth to respond, a smooth, cultured voice cut in from behind him, all velvet and sin wrapped in charm and delivered with the kind of confidence that suggested its owner had never met a room he couldn't dominate simply by existing in it.
"Nephilim," the man drawled, his voice carrying just a hint of an accent that was either very old British or something else entirely. "Half-angel, if we're being literal about it. Though in Harry's case, the circumstances were… let's say, creatively unusual."
Hope turned, following the voice, and her breath caught in her throat.
A tall, devastatingly handsome man strolled forward like he was walking a runway no one else had been invited to. The tailored suit hugged him like a secret, every movement fluid and predatory, every smile a weapon designed to disarm. His dark hair was perfectly styled without looking like he'd put any effort into it, and his eyes...
His eyes were dark and warm and ancient, holding depths that suggested he'd seen the birth and death of civilizations and found most of them mildly amusing.
Power rolled off him in waves—ancient, undeniable, the kind that made even the strongest supernatural beings instinctively straighten their spines and remember their manners. The candles flickered as he moved, not from any wind, but as though even fire recognized his authority.
"And you are?" Hope asked, though the suspicion in her tone was edged with a dawning recognition she clearly didn't want to admit. There was something about him that felt familiar in the worst possible way—the kind of familiar that showed up in nightmares and religious texts.
The man gave a slight bow, charming and theatrical in equal measure, his smile sharp enough to cut glass. "Lucifer Morningstar," he purred, savoring each syllable like fine wine. "Fallen angel, former ruler of Hell, current nightclub owner in Los Angeles, and—most relevantly—Harry's father. Also the one who returned your uncle's memories and who would quite like to help you erase that rather nasty Hollow problem once and for all."
The gymnasium went utterly silent except for the soft hum of protective wards and the sound of Hope's world reorganizing itself around this new, impossible information.
Even the candle flames seemed to lean forward, flickering like an audience that knew the main act was about to start.
Hope stood stock-still, every inch the Mikaelson heir—chin high, shoulders squared, magic crackling around her like visible indignation—even as her world view went through several violent recalibrations.
"Lucifer," she said slowly, like she was tasting the word for poison and finding it disappointingly flavorless. "As in *the* Lucifer. The Devil. Prince of Darkness. Cast-down rebel angel. The whole eternal damnation and sulfur-scented nightmares package."
Lucifer smiled in that maddening way that suggested both delight and faint condescension, as though she'd just said something charmingly naive. "The very same. Though I find 'cosmically misunderstood' has a nicer ring to it these days. Easier on the personal brand, you understand. Much better for business. And, frankly, closer to the truth than most of the press I've received over the millennia."
Hope's gaze flicked to Harry, then back to Lucifer, her jaw tightening as comprehension slammed into her like a freight train carrying impossible mathematics. "So if you're... you. That makes him—"
"A Nephilim," Harry cut in, flashing a crooked grin like he was delivering the punchline to the world's most awkward joke. "Half-angel, half-wizard, with a bit of Devil-brand parenting thrown in for spice. According to some overly dramatic theologians and a few conspiracy theorists with too much time on their hands, potentially the Antichrist. Though that's really more of a... career option than a job description. The hours are terrible and the dress code is surprisingly formal."
Hope blinked. Then blinked again. Then stared at him like he'd just announced he was secretly a unicorn who'd been masquerading as a human for tax purposes.
"The Antichrist," she repeated faintly, her voice climbing in pitch. "My friend Harry Potter—the guy who keeps stealing my coffee and complaining about Advanced Magical Theory homework—is potentially the bloody Antichrist?"
"Potentially," Harry corrected, lifting a finger like he was making an important distinction. "And honestly, the role involves far too many committee meetings in Hell and way too much paperwork. I'm not big on bureaucracy or eternal torment. Much prefer the whole 'helping friends, creatively solving impossible problems, and avoiding my homework' thing. Less bureaucracy, more adventure, significantly better snacks."
Lucifer chuckled approvingly, as if his son had just delivered a perfectly timed encore in one of his nightclubs. "That's my boy. Always did hate bureaucracy. Gets it from me, actually. Do you know how much paperwork is involved in running Hell? It's absolutely mind-numbing. I delegated most of it to middle management centuries ago."
Hope stared at Harry for a long beat, her sharp green-blue eyes narrowing as she processed this information. He could almost hear the gears of her tribrid brain slotting puzzle pieces into place—every oddity about him, every casual impossibility he'd shrugged off like it was Tuesday, every time he'd known things he shouldn't have known or done things that should have been beyond any normal wizard's capability.
"Show me," she said finally, her voice steady despite the emotional whiplash she'd just experienced, command threaded through her vulnerability. "If you're really half-angel—if this isn't some elaborate prank or hallucination or magical psychotic break—prove it."
Harry sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair like a man resigned to theatrics he'd spent years trying to avoid. "Knew you were going to say that. You Mikaelsons are all the same—trust, but verify. Usually with dramatic demonstrations."
His gaze slid sideways to Lucifer, who was watching the proceedings with obvious amusement. "You see, this is what happens when your entire parental philosophy is 'always make an entrance' and 'subtlety is overrated.' Now people expect dramatics from me too."
Lucifer looked absolutely shameless about it, spreading his hands with theatrical innocence. "And yet, you're about to give her the show anyway. Because deep down, past all that British reserve and teenage angst, you love it. The drama, the reveal, the moment when everyone realizes exactly how extraordinary you are."
Harry ignored him with the practiced ease of someone who'd been dealing with his father's ego for years, stepping into the center of the spell circle. The runes flared brighter as he crossed them, responding to his presence like tuning forks struck by a cosmic hammer.
"Right then," he said, his voice carrying that casual British understatement that made even world-shaking revelations sound like mild observations about the weather. "But fair warning: it's flashy. Very flashy. Blame him." He jerked a thumb at his father.
Lucifer beamed with paternal pride. "You're welcome."
Harry rolled his shoulders, exhaled slowly, and let the careful human disguise he'd been wearing for months begin to peel away like layers of paint stripping from a masterpiece.
The air shimmered around him, reality bending slightly at the edges as power that had been carefully contained began to unfurl. Golden light bled through his skin like sunlight forcing its way through cracks in a dam, warm and brilliant and utterly impossible. His emerald eyes lit up from within, glowing as if candlelight itself had taken residence behind them, and his voice, when he spoke, carried strange harmonics that vibrated in the bones of everyone present.
"Best step back," he advised with casual understatement that somehow made the warning more ominous rather than less. "Wing manifestation tends to get... cinematic."
Hope's eyes widened, but she didn't move. Elijah, of course, didn't either—Mikaelson composure in full force, though his hand did tighten protectively on her shoulder.
And then the wings came.
They burst forth in a slow, deliberate unfurling, each feather appearing like a stroke from some divine paintbrush wielded by an artist who'd never heard the word 'subtle.' Vast crimson pinions threaded with veins of molten gold, each feather edged in light that seemed to come from some internal source. They glowed as though forged from fire and starlight, casting dancing shadows on the gymnasium walls.
When they spread fully, they spanned nearly fifteen feet, sweeping the air with such force that the candles guttered wildly before flaring back to life, brighter than before. The gym trembled, not from any earthquake but from the sheer presence of divine power barely contained within human form. The protective runes flared so brightly they left afterimages on everyone's retinas, as if straining to contain the power suddenly radiating from him.
The temperature in the room spiked, then cooled, then settled into something that felt like standing next to a controlled wildfire—warm, but with the constant awareness that this was power that could reshape reality if it chose to.
Hope's mouth parted, her eyes widening with something that might have been awe, or terror, or possibly both. When she finally spoke, her words tumbled out in a whisper laced with wonder, suspicion, and maybe—just maybe—relief.
"Bloody hell... you're really him. You're really the Devil's son."
Harry arched an eyebrow, managing to look both cosmic and unimpressed with his own dramatics. "Technically speaking, the Devil is only one of my fathers. My other dad was James Potter—lovely bloke, bit obsessed with his hair, had a tendency to hex people who annoyed him, until a dark curse rendered him infertile."
He gestured vaguely with one wing, which should have looked absurd but somehow managed to seem perfectly natural. "Lucifer here stepped in for the whole conception business when Mum decided she wanted children and conventional methods weren't working. Think of it as magical IVF with a distinctly celestial twist. Efficient, if a tad unconventional."
Lucifer made a low sound of mock offense, leaning lazily against the wall with studied casualness. "Tad unconventional? Darling boy, please. If you're going to tell the story, at least make it sound appropriately epic. I don't simply 'step in' for anything. I transform the situation with style, panache, and just the right amount of cosmic flair."
Hope blinked rapidly, looking between them like someone who'd stumbled into the world's strangest family therapy session. "So... let me get this straight. Your dad—" she pointed at Harry, "—was cursed with infertility. Your other dad—" she pointed at Lucifer, "—is, well, Satan himself. And your mum just went along with this like it was some kind of supernatural carpool arrangement?"
Harry smiled sweetly, his voice carrying that cosmic resonance that made the walls seem to lean in to listen while somehow maintaining his perfectly ordinary teenage cadence. "Mum had a very practical streak. Also, Lucifer is remarkably persuasive when he wants to be, and she'd always been partial to bad boys with good manners. And honestly, compared to her sister Petunia, the literal Devil was definitely the better in-law option."
Lucifer grinned like a cat who'd been complimented on both his purring and his hunting skills. "She adored me from the moment we met. Still does."
Elijah, who had been standing in the shadows with his usual air of aristocratic detachment and centuries of experience with impossible situations, finally spoke. His voice was calm, measured, and precise, but his brow arched ever so slightly in what might have been amusement.
"I must say, I've witnessed centuries of elaborate family entanglements, from medieval political marriages to supernatural blood feuds that spanned continents... yet somehow, yours manages to be both the most blasphemous and the most thoroughly British thing I've ever encountered."
Harry gave a small bow of acknowledgment, wings rustling softly. "I do try to maintain standards. Now—Hope." The levity faded from his expression, replaced by something gentler but no less powerful. "About your research."
The wings folded slightly, allowing him to move closer without turning the gymnasium into an accidental cathedral. His emerald eyes, still glowing with that inner light, softened with genuine affection and concern.
"When I said I could help with the Hollow situation," Harry continued, his voice losing some of its cosmic resonance and returning to the more familiar tones of the friend who'd spent countless hours in the library with her, "I wasn't offering vague moral support or empty promises. I was offering access to solutions that step outside the usual... supernatural restrictions. Resources that most people don't even know exist."
His expression grew serious, wings shifting restlessly behind him. "I meant it when I said your family didn't have to stay splintered forever. The Hollow is powerful, yes. Ancient and destructive and seemingly impossible to contain. But it's not unique, and it's not unbeatable. It just requires the right approach."
Hope crossed her arms, her voice sharp despite the tremor in it, years of disappointment and frustrated hope bleeding through her carefully maintained composure. "So all this time—while I was breaking into restricted library sections, pulling all-nighters until I could barely see straight, carrying around the guilt of separating my family like some kind of cosmic burden—you were sitting there with literal get-out-of-magical-catastrophe-free cards in your back pocket?"
Harry tilted his head, lips twitching in amusement even as his eyes remained serious. "Not in my back pocket. In my wingspan, technically. But yes, essentially."
"Do you have any idea what that felt like?" Hope's voice cracked, anger and exhaustion and desperate hope spilling out in equal measure. "I've been tearing myself apart trying to fix something that was impossible, carrying the weight of everyone's sacrifice, everyone's pain. Alone. And you could have—"
"Jumped in with a wave of my holy-hellfire hands and solved everything in five minutes?" Harry cut in, his tone infuriatingly light but not unsympathetic. "Yes, I could have. But that would have left you dependent on me instead of prepared for the consequences, and worse, it would have robbed you of the growth that came from facing the impossible."
His voice grew more serious, wings spreading slightly as if to emphasize his point. "Do you want to know the one thing reality hates more than Dark Lords with delusions of grandeur? People with god-level powers who haven't earned them. The universe has a very strict policy about cosmic shortcuts."
Lucifer chuckled warmly, his smile fond as he watched his son navigate the delicate balance between honesty and kindness. "He does have a point, my dear. Timing is everything in matters like these. People only truly appreciate miracles once they've reached the brink of despair. Otherwise, they call it meddling, and nobody appreciates a meddler."
Hope shot him a look sharp enough to cut marble, her tribrid heritage showing in the way her eyes flashed with barely contained power. "So what, you just... let me drown until I was desperate enough for you to swoop in and play savior? Let me think my family was broken forever while you waited for the perfect moment to reveal you could fix everything?"
Harry spread his hands, wings rustling with what might have been embarrassment. "In fairness, you're not exactly the type to accept help gracefully, are you? I mean, tribrid pride, centuries of Mikaelson stubbornness passed down through generations of impossibly dramatic supernatural beings—it's practically genetic. You'd have hexed me on principle if I'd approached you too early."
Elijah's mouth twitched in something that might have been amusement, despite the gravity of the situation. "He's not wrong."
Hope turned to him in outrage, her voice climbing. "Seriously? You're taking his side?"
Elijah shrugged with all the dignity of someone who'd spent a thousand years perfecting the art of being right while appearing apologetic about it. "You inherited more than your father's temper, Hope. You inherited the family tendency to mistake solitude for strength, to believe that accepting help is somehow a form of weakness. I speak from extensive personal experience."
Harry leaned closer, his smirk softening into something gentler, more understanding. "The point is, you weren't destroying yourself for nothing. You were building resilience, clarity, and—dare I say—perspective. The kind of emotional and magical maturity that means when I do offer solutions, you can make informed decisions about how much of my... particular brand of cosmic interference you actually want in your life."
He paused, his expression growing more serious. "With informed consent, which I hear is rather fashionable these days. Much better than the old-fashioned approach of 'mysterious benefactor swoops in and fixes everything while keeping everyone in the dark about the true cost.'"
Hope stared at him for a long moment, torn between fury and relief, between the desire to hex him into next week and the overwhelming gratitude that he'd been there when she needed him most. "You're insufferable."
Harry grinned, all British charm and cosmic arrogance wrapped up in teenage nonchalance. "Yes, but I'm helpful. And I bring excellent solutions to impossible problems. Also, my father owns several very nice nightclubs, so there's that."
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