Chapter 17: Full Moon.
Lydia's room looked like a page torn out of a designer magazine—clothes scattered everywhere, makeup palettes open like battle stations, and a pair of heels dangerously close to Hope's foot.
"I'm going to scream if I can't find my gold hoops," Lydia huffed, flipping through a drawer like it had personally offended her.
Hope sat cross-legged on the bed, watching Lydia's chaos unfold with an amused smile. "Have you tried looking under the vanity? You threw a lipstick there about twenty minutes ago."
Lydia froze, narrowed her eyes at the vanity, and then slowly bent down. "If you're right…"
"I usually am," Hope teased.
Sure enough, Lydia resurfaced with the missing earrings. She gave Hope a triumphant look before sitting down beside her. "Okay. Help me with my eyeliner. No one has hands steadier than you."
Hope took the liner from her with a grin and gently tilted Lydia's face. "Don't blink."
The two girls had become close in the strangest of ways—through chaos, secrets, and supernatural nightmares. But moments like this? They made it feel normal. Almost like they were just two teens getting ready for a birthday party.
The decorations were perfect. The balloons were on theme, the cake was custom-made with gold fondant and strawberries, and Lydia Martin looked like a Vogue cover in her party dress.
Only… the house was painfully empty.
She paced in her heels, scanning the grand living room that echoed with awkward silence. "Where is everyone?" Lydia muttered, glancing at the clock. "The invite said 7. It's 7:43."
Hope sat cross-legged on the couch, munching on a cookie. "Maybe they're intimidated by your perfection and couldn't find anything nice enough to wear?"
Lydia shot her a look. "Hope."
"I'm just saying," she shrugged. "I'd be scared to show up underdressed too."
Just then, the front door banged open and a familiar voice called out, "I need assistance!"
Hope turned her head, and instantly burst into laughter. Stiles was struggling at the doorway, dragging an obnoxiously large, gift-wrapped box that was almost the size of a small fridge.
"I come bearing offerings!" he announced dramatically, halfway in the door but stuck because the box wouldn't fit.
"Oh my God, what is that?" Hope laughed, practically falling off the couch.
"Lydia's birthday gift!" he grunted. "That she will love, by the way. But first I need physics to stop betraying me!"
"Slide it sideways!" Scott's voice joined in as he came up behind Stiles, pushing his shoulder to help. "And maybe don't yell 'I come bearing offerings' next time, it sounds like a cult thing."
Stiles rolled his eyes. "It's dramatic flair, Scott. Learn from it."
Behind them, Allison entered more gracefully, holding a smaller wrapped box and giving Lydia a warm smile. "Happy birthday. I brought something a bit more manageable."
Lydia managed a tight smile, grateful they showed up, but still bothered by the absence of literally everyone else.
Hope raised an eyebrow as she stood up. "So it's just us?"
Lydia let out a sigh, folding her arms. "Apparently. Either everyone's late or I've been socially assassinated."
Hope walked over and bumped her shoulder against hers. "Then let them miss out. This just became an exclusive gathering. VIPs only."
"You mean—"
"Yes," Hope grinned. "We're about to party like the weirdos we are."
"Wait, does that mean I can open my gift now?" Lydia asked, turning to Stiles who was still halfway in the door.
"If I ever get it through the door, yeah."
"Want help?" Scott asked, already walking toward him.
"Please. Before I yeet it through the window out of pure rage."
Allison laughed and walked over to help Hope rearrange the table, the two girls working in easy silence. The music played softly in the background, the kind that fills the room without being overwhelming. For a moment, it felt less like a failed party and more like a gathering of family.
Hope looked at Lydia with a crooked smile. "You know, I did bring a gift too."
Lydia raised a brow. "Is it sarcastic commentary wrapped in a bow?"
"No," she grinned. "Come on."
Hope led her to the hallway, to where she'd hidden her gift earlier: a modestly-sized canvas wrapped in brown paper. Lydia peeled it open slowly and gasped.
It was a portrait. Her. Painted in sweeping strokes of gold, red, and soft light—regal, confident, glowing. The kind of art you'd see in a gallery.
"You… you painted this?" Lydia asked, voice quiet with awe.
Hope nodded, suddenly a bit shy. "Yeah. I couldn't exactly buy you diamonds or a designer bag. But painting comes easy to me. It always did. Thought I'd use that for something that mattered."
Lydia blinked, genuinely touched. "This is… this is better than diamonds."
From the living room came a crash followed by Scott yelling, "Stiles, you almost broke your leg!"
"WORTH IT!" Stiles shouted back.
Lydia laughed for the first time that night, and Hope smiled, tension leaving her shoulders.
Maybe not everyone came.
But the right people did.
And that made all the difference.
Victoria sat at the edge of her bed, the silence of the house pressing in on her like a weight. Her hands trembled slightly as she stared at them—clean now, but not long ago they had held a weapon meant for a boy. A boy.
Scott McCall.
She exhaled sharply, trying to steady herself, but the guilt was a shadow that clung to her no matter how many times she tried to justify it.
"He's a threat," she whispered, as if saying it aloud would make it feel true again. "He's not human anymore…"
But even she didn't believe the words.
She had looked into his eyes when she tried to strike—eyes filled not with malice, but confusion… hurt… fear. Not the eyes of a killer. Not the eyes of a monster.
Victoria leaned forward, burying her face in her hands.
"What have I become?" she murmured. "Is this what the code demands now?"
Gerard's voice echoed in her mind, cold and resolute: "We kill those who turn."
But what if they didn't deserve to die?
What if the line between monster and victim wasn't as clear as she'd been taught?
Her breath hitched. She had been so certain, so loyal to the code, so devoted to protecting her family that she hadn't stopped to see the truth. And now, all she felt was shame.
"I almost killed a child," she whispered.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.
If Chris ever knew… if Allison ever knew…
She wanted to confess to Allison, She even had the courage to ask her to talk but Allison never came. It's okay though, she will come clean after she comes back from the party.
Victoria stood up slowly, composed her face, and walked to the bathroom to splash cold water over her skin.
Because no matter how guilty she felt, there was no undoing what she had almost done.
Only living with it.
She looked in the mirror with shock written on her face, Gerard was standing behind her with a gun pointed at her.
It only took thirty minutes for the party to turn from a sad gathering of five into a full-blown high school rager.The house was full—music blasting, lights dim, drinks flowing—and Lydia's smile lit up the entire room more than any fairy lights ever could.
Thanks to the pack who called every person they knew in town.
"Hey," Allison appeared by Hope's side, holding out a cup of punch like a peace offering.
Hope took it with a grateful hum. "Thanks. This is either spiked or sugar straight from the gods."
"Probably both," Allison smirked.
Hope raised a brow, eyeing her sideways. "So… why do you seek me, Allison Argent? Out with it. I know you're dying to say something."
Allison blinked, caught. "How did you—"
"Please, you don't normally approach me unless it's urgent or life-threatening. Which... honestly, fits the vibe lately."
"Right. Fair enough," Allison laughed awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But it's not like I avoid talking to you. We're all just always stuck in some supernatural murder mystery. I never got the chance to… I don't know, bond with you."
Hope narrowed her eyes, deadpan. "That's not true. I'm knee-deep in supernatural drama, yet I still find time to paint, insult Derek, and steal Stiles' fries. Time management, babe."
Allison burst out laughing. "Okay, point taken."
Hope took a long sip of her drink. "Besides, I don't have a family pressuring me to train 24/7 and break up with my boyfriend. So, I guess I get it. I'm very understanding."
"Thank you," Allison said softly, eyes sincere. "You are a good person, Hope. I don't know why I've never talked to you for more than two minutes before."
"Because supernatural drama," they both said in unison, and then cracked up.
But then Allison's face shifted—more serious now, hesitant. "Actually… there is something I wanted to tell you."
Hope froze slightly, her smile faltering. "I knew it. Here comes the bomb."
Allison bit her lip. "I saw some photos in Matt's camera."
Hope's fingers tightened around the plastic cup.
"And I mean a lot of photos," Allison added. "Some… of you. Taken without you noticing. In class. Around school. A couple from when you were reading alone outside the library."
Hope's stomach dropped.
"I don't want to freak you out," Allison said quickly, "but I think he might be stalking you. And I didn't want to keep that from you."
Hope blinked, once.
Twice.
The room suddenly didn't feel as warm. Her vision swam. Her hands were shaking and she didn't even realize it until her cup slipped slightly.
Stalking. Of course. She knew this was coming. She expected this. It was like she was reliving the show in real time. She had watched it before. Knew the characters, the plot. This wasn't new.
So why couldn't she breathe?
"Hey—Hope?" Allison's voice was distant now.
You're the tribrid, her inner voice snapped. You're powerful. You're not supposed to be weak.
But the sting in her eyes said otherwise.
She turned her face away, but the tears still betrayed her. Hot. Angry. Humiliating.
"What the hell," she whispered to herself. "Why am I crying?"
Allison moved closer, concern painting her face. "Do you want to go somewhere quieter?"
But Hope could only shake her head, tears slipping down now, hands trembling. "I want to be alone for a bit, please." She left a worried Allison who soon got distracted by illusions because of the punch.
For all her power, her control, her knowledge—she was still human enough to feel fear. To feel violated. And that scared her more than anything.
The laughter echoed, lights flickered gold against crystal glasses, and the music hummed through Lydia's house like a pulse. And She was having a panic attack.
Until the music warped.
The laughter dulled.
And the floor shifted—barely—but she felt it.
Her vision blurred, the colors in the room oversaturated for a second, like someone had cranked the contrast too high. Hope blinked, rubbed her temple.
"Okay, weird," she whispered.
When she opened her eyes again, the room was empty.
Completely empty.
Gone were the lights, the music, the decorations. The once-bustling home was cold and dead, curtains drawn, candles blown out, the scent of blood faint in the air.
She looked down. Her cup had shattered on the floor, red punch pooling like blood at her feet.
Hope turned around—and froze.
There she was.
Standing in the middle of the room… was her.
The real Hope Mikaelson.
Eyes glowing with anger, lips curled in disgust, and an unmistakable aura of power around her. She looked exactly like the version Hope had seen in pictures—immaculate, otherworldly, terrifying.
"You're not me," the real Hope hissed.
Hope's heart thudded in her chest. "I never said I was."
"But you took me," the illusion snapped, voice echoing unnaturally, eyes sharp and full of fury. "You stole this body. This life. My name."
"That's not how it happened," Hope said shakily, stepping back. "I didn't choose this—"
"Didn't you?" the real Hope stepped forward, predatory. "You walked into my world. You wear my face. You breathe my air. You laugh with my friends."
Hope backed into the wall, breathing uneven.
"You don't belong here," the illusion growled. "You never did. And if you won't leave—"
A dagger appeared in her hand, glowing with magic. "—I'll rip you out."
"You're not supposed to exist. And I'm taking it all back."
She lunged.
Hope screamed, but nothing came out.
And then—hands grabbed her shoulders, gently shaking her.
"HOPE!"
The world snapped back into place like glass being unshattered.
Music. Lights. Party.
But she was on the floor now—knees against broken glass and punch, her breath caught in her throat.
And crouched beside her was Stiles.
Only Stiles.
No one else had even noticed.
"Hey, hey, you with me?" he asked gently, eyes wide with concern. "Hope, breathe. Come on."
She blinked, chest still heaving. "I saw… I saw her. Me. She tried to—she said I didn't belong. That I stole everything."
Stiles swallowed, not fully understanding, but not questioning her either. "Okay. Creepy supernatural doppelgänger stuff. Got it. Everyone's going crazy at the party—apparently, there's something in the punch, and we can't find Lydia. Someone's mixing something in the drinks. C'mon."
He gently helped her up, ignoring the glass. "Let's get you outside."
"Thanks," she mumbled, folding her arms tightly around herself.
Stiles shoved his hands in his pockets. "You looked like you were gonna pass out. I figured I should, you know, be less of a disaster and more of a friend."
She laughed weakly. "For a guy who never shuts up, you're surprisingly comforting."
He grinned. "It's the babbling. Keeps people distracted."
Hope went quiet for a moment, staring up at the stars. "Stiles… what if I'm not supposed to be here? What if this whole thing is wrong?"
Stiles didn't hesitate. "Then screw 'supposed to.' You're here. That's what matters. And whatever this was—we'll figure it out. Okay?"
Hope nodded, her throat tight, but for once… she felt less alone.
"Did you find Hope?" They heard Scott's voice as he approached from near the pool.
"Got Hope. Lydia's still missing," Stiles called back.
Before anyone could say more, a familiar voice screamed from across the other side of the pool, making all three of them jump.
"I can't swim!" Matt yelled, panicked. "No, no, stop, guys! I can't swim! I can't swim!"
He continued to thrash as a group of lacrosse players threw him into the water. He tried to come back up, but he was flailing, panicking, screaming. Water splashed in every direction, and Scott's eyes widened as he began to put the pieces together.
Everyone stared as Jackson knelt down and grabbed Matt, yanking him out of the pool.
Matt stood up, drenched and panting, eyes wild as he looked around at the crowd watching him.
"What are you looking at?" he growled before storming off.
He paused right in front of the trio. His jaw clenched, and with a scowl, he shoved Hope into Stiles and stalked past them, stomping as he left the party.
Stiles steadied Hope by the arm as she turned around, giving both boys a knowing look.
Then—
Sirens.
They wailed in the distance, and someone shouted, "Cops are here! Party's over!"
Panic erupted. Everyone was running, stumbling, yelling.
The trio ran outside after Matt, just in time to see him fuming in anger—with the Kanima's tail wrapped protectively around him.
Stiles had been right.
Hope was proven right.
And Scott had his proof.
If everything went according to plan, Hope would throw a big party in celebration.
But nothing ever goes according to plan in Beacon Hills… does it?
The house was silent—unnaturally so.
Chris Argent pushed open the bedroom door slowly, sensing something was wrong before he even stepped inside. The metallic scent of blood hit him like a wave.
Victoria lay still on their bed, her skin pale, the crimson stain on her blouse stark against her chest. Her hand was curled around a pistol, and beside her on the nightstand sat a folded letter.
He crossed the room in a daze, hands shaking as he reached for the note.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
"I'm sorry," Gerard said, voice low and grave. "I found her like this."
Chris didn't speak—he couldn't. His eyes dropped to the paper in his hand.
"My love," it read in her familiar handwriting.
"I was bitten. By Derek Hale. I felt the change beginning, the darkness creeping in. I didn't want you to see me like that, didn't want to become something unrecognizable. This was the only way I could protect you. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to face it."
His chest tightened painfully.
"She didn't want to risk hurting you," Gerard continued gently. "She did what she thought was right. She died with her humanity."
Chris clenched the letter in his fist, eyes burning, jaw set. "Derek," he breathed, the name twisting out of his mouth like venom.
Gerard placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "She made her choice. Now, you have to make yours. Are you going to let her death mean nothing?"
Chris didn't respond.
He didn't see the flicker of triumph in Gerard's eyes.
He didn't know the letter was a lie.
Or that the monster wasn't the one hiding in the woods…
It was the one standing right behind him.
Lydia dragged an unconscious Derek to the old, burned Hale house and did exactly as she was told, her face emotionless. She revived Peter Hale. On the other hand Allison mourned her mother's death.