#hopemikaelson

You stared at the man in front of you like he’d grown a second head.

“Let me get this straight—you want me to babysit your… poodle?”

Klaus Mikaelson—Original hybrid, mass-murderer, occasional savior of cities—nodded solemnly. In his arms sat a pure white, curly-haired poodle with a tiny flower collar, staring at you with far too much intelligence in her eyes.

“She’s not just any poodle,” Klaus said, handing her over like a crown jewel. “Her name is Hope. And yes, I named her after my daughter. Don’t read into it.”

“I’m reading deeply into it.”

“She has certain… sensitivities. The usual dog-sitter is recovering from minor burns after feeding her dry kibble instead of organic lamb and herbs,” he said casually, adjusting the sleeves of his coat. “And the last person who tried to clip her nails had their soul temporarily detached from their body.”

“Temporarily?”

“They recovered. Mostly.”

You blinked down at the fluffball in your arms. She blinked back. Her eyes shimmered gold.

“Klaus,” you whispered, “did you give your dog werewolf venom?”

He looked proud. “Not intentionally. But she’s very protective.”

Before you could protest, he pressed a kiss to the dog’s head, gave you an uncomfortably charming smirk, and vanished in a blur of supernatural speed—leaving you alone in your apartment, holding what might be the most cursed dog in New Orleans.

Hour One:

Hope had already:

Eaten a third of your spell book collection.

Barked at your reflection in the mirror until it shattered.

Growled at a bag of salt like it owed her money.

Peed on a pentagram you swear wasn’t there when you left the room.

Every time you turned around, she was either vanishing into thin air or phasing through walls like some unholy mash-up of Casper and Cerberus.

When you tried to Google “hybrid dog care,” your phone screen cracked. Hope blinked innocently.

Hour Two:

You took her for a walk.

Or, more accurately, she took you. The leash enchanted by Freya was supposed to help with control, but instead, it burned your hand like holy fire the second you tried to steer her away from attacking a vampire who whistled at her.

He lost his pinky.

“No regrets,” you muttered as you dragged her home.

She barked smugly.

Hour Three:

You were finally sitting on the couch, sipping water, trying to recharge your last nerve—when someone knocked.

You didn’t even get a chance to check who it was before the door swung open, and in walked the last person you needed.

Kol Mikaelson.

Wearing a smirk that spelled nothing but trouble, he strutted in like he owned the place, pausing when his eyes landed on Hope.

“Oh bloody hell, you’re babysitting her?” he asked, pointing at the poodle. “Brave soul. Or stupid. Haven’t decided yet.”

“I haven’t either,” you muttered. “She tried to levitate my fridge.”

Kol laughed like this was the best entertainment he’d had in weeks. “She did that to Marcel’s liquor cabinet last month. The scotch never came back down.”

You eyed him. “Aren’t you supposed to be banned from entering uninvited?”

Kol grinned wider. “She let me in.”

Hope was now curled up on your spell circle, licking her paws like she didn’t just invite a Mikaelson into your home using telepathic dog magic.

“I hate this,” you said aloud.

“She once turned Davina’s hair blue,” Kol added helpfully, pouring himself your last glass of bourbon.

Hour Four:

Hope howled at the moon on your wallpaper. Then the wallpaper peeled off the wall.

Kol was now sitting cross-legged on the floor, showing Hope how to disassemble a magical tracker like it was arts and crafts. She was watching attentively.

You contemplated opening a portal to another dimension.

“You know,” Kol said conversationally, “Klaus enchanted her collar. Anyone who tries to remove it gets hit with a hallucination spell. It’s usually bees. Angry, screaming bees.”

“Why would you do that to a poodle?”

“Because we’re the Mikaelsons, darling,” Kol said, raising his glass. “We ruin everything. Even pets.”

Hour Five:

You were about to put Hope to bed in her magically protected dog bed (crafted from vampire silk and whatever dignity you had left), when she perked up—ears twitching.

Kol’s grin faded.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

Hope began to growl.

“That’s her ‘someone pissed off Klaus’ growl.” Kol stood quickly. “Who did it this time?”

Before you could ask what the hell he meant, your window exploded. A flaming arrow landed in your living room.

Hope barked once—then vanished.

Kol swore. “She’s gone to bite someone.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE’S GONE TO BITE SOMEONE?”

“She’s got a teleportation charm. It only activates when Klaus is in trouble.”

You looked around your wrecked living room. “She left me. Alone. With an open portal. And a fire hazard.”

Kol raised his hands innocently. “Welcome to the family.”

Hour Six:

Klaus returned like nothing happened. Just strolled in, right as Hope reappeared beside him, blood on her fur and a small smug strut in her step.

“Well?” he asked. “How did she behave?”

You stared at him. Then at the carnage. Then at the glitter cloud still hanging in the air.

“She’s not a dog. She’s a spell wrapped in fur and trauma.”

“She likes you,” Klaus said with a smile. “She only terrorizes people she trusts.”

“I need therapy.”

“You’ll be fine.”

You handed him the leash like it was a live grenade. “Next time, I’m babysitting your enemies. They’d be safer.”

Klaus leaned in close. “But not nearly as fun, love.”

Hope barked in agreement.