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Chapter Text

“They refuse to use a water hose for their lawn,” Petunia rolled her eyes agitated, then let out a theatrical sigh. “They water their front yard with a plastic watering can- how shabby. They really don't think about how their behavior reflects on the rest of the neighborhood.”

“What does that do to you when you see your neighbor walking around with a watering can?”

Petunia raised her top lip and curled her nose as if she'd just smelled something foul. "It's a sense of vicarious shame."

“Do you feel the eyes of the rest of the neighborhood on you?”

“Continue. My husband and I are proud that we fit in so well in the neighborhood. We are an integral part of Little Whining, we are proud of our appearance- our house and garden radiate this.”

With an inscrutable gaze, the man sank deeper into his chair, closely observing the movements the erratic, almost manic woman showed in the short time she sat in her chair. Her thin, but neat, fingers seemed to move constantly. They were fast, barely perceptible movements, but they were visible to him. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated as she spoke of her neighbors' shortcomings.

“Cleanliness and to certain extent conformity with the rest of the neighborhood is of course a positive thing. However, the question is whether your own personality and behavior should be measurable in your living environment- especially if this behavior is at the expense of your own peace of mind.”

The woman stretched her neck further, accentuating the abnormal length with the sharp lines of the sternocleidomastoid muscle, the muscle clearly visible under her skin. He praised himself for not usually judging a person's appearance, but the horselike features that makeup Mrs. Dursley's ornaments were too profound to ignore. Her elongated, narrow face was twisted into a sour look by the thin lips.

“I'm not the one who should adapt, Dr. Lecter,” Petunia snapped, gesturing wildly at the windows overlooking Guildford Cathedral, an immense church built in the Art Deco style. Hannibal knew that the neighborhood where Mrs. Dursley lived was a far cry from Guildford's historic cobbled High Street, but realized the woman felt superior to the populace that lived in Little Whining.

“I have to watch the monstrosity of a woman bent over the weight of the watering can. I'm the one who has to watch dirty drops of perspiration drip down her face. It makes me nauseous,” Petunia spat. Her accelerated heart rate was visible in her skinny neck, a movement that could be easily stopped by multiple instruments in Hannibal's office. It would be more satisfying, however, to feel her heart's beating steadily weaken, until her breath caught in the pressure of his finger.

Choices, choices.

“Some people will argue that during this drought it is wise to use rainwater for the garden itself- if it is at the expense of the aesthetics of the garden due to the installation of a rain barrel.”

The reaction to the word "rain barrel" was immense on Petunia's countenance. The woman seemed unable to breathe at the moment, her eyes bulging and her lips pursed in horror. "It's indecent," she managed to say in a measured voice. “It's just plain rude, a disgrace to the neighborhood.”

Petunia straightened her skirt and straightened her back. “Little Whining is a charming provincial town of Surrey, just a few miles from London. Although I have been speaking with Mrs. Hudson multiple times, she doesn't seem to want to understand that we can ignore the guidelines during the drought. It is really dense to think that a withered lawn is acceptable- however dry and hot this summer may be.”

“Now that you talk about it, how does that make you feel?”

“I feel strengthened in my views, justified in my actions.”

“That was not my question. How do you feel about it?”

“Nervous about how others see me, offended, oppressed, and agitated.”

With an elegant movement, Hannibal folded his legs. He kept his facial expression neutral and jotted down something in his notebook. He looked at Mrs. Dursley then calmed down, his lips relaxed and curled in what could be explained as a sympathetic expression. “It's a step in the right direction when you're honest with yourself.”

He hands the box of tissues to Mrs. Dursley, who was watching it as unobtrusively as possible. The woman grimaced but took the box and used the tissues to dab her eyes and blow her nose. With a loud sob, the thin woman threw the crumpled handkerchief on the side table and lifted her eyes to the ceiling, apparently too much taken aback by the conversation. She missed the twitch of a muscle under Hannibal's eye as he watched the filthy tissue thrown so carelessly onto the spotless table.

"It's really horrible to be so burdened by the fortunes and misfortunes of the neighborhood," Petunia sighed, "no one understands what I'm going through."

“Our brains are designed to experience anxiety in short bursts, not the prolonged exposure your neuroses seem to enjoy at the whim of your neighbor. That's why you feel like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Hannibal said quietly.

“I have to admit that I had my doubts when I heard that you would temporarily take over the practice of Dr. Vermont. A young man could not possibly fathom the pains I have to endure every day, but you managed to surprise me. Were it not for the fact that you are not British, with an almost unintelligible accent, I would have insisted on starting a permanent practice in Surrey.” Petunia smiled at what she thought painted a tempting picture. She pulled her shoulders back slightly, pushing her flabby breasts forward. "I'm really happy that I finally have someone who understands me."

“It's my job, Mrs. Dursley, but I'm glad I can act as a beacon in the darkness that is the suburb of rural London," Hannibal said, as charmingly as possible, which lay within the power of his jaws clenched.

Petunia got up and slipped the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. "I think you're missing the significance of the importance," she said in a pedantic tone. “All my life, but especially the past fifteen years, nobody understands how hard my life is. How ungrateful family can be, even if you fulfill a motherly role with gusto.”

Hannibal, too, stood and gestured toward the door that led to Dr. Vermont’s waiting room and exit. Although he himself would have preferred the waiting room and exit to be separated from each other, the waiting room was neutral and tastefully decorated. It wasn't done by Hannibal's standards, of course, but he couldn't complain. After all, he was only going to spend a few months in Guildford as long as Dr. Vermont was confined to his bed after a car accident.

“This sounds like a topic for our next session,” he said with a smile. "I'll keep your time slot open, I'll see you next week."

With an almost flirtatious smile, Petunia tucked a lock of hair behind her eyes and blinked slowly- too slow, making it seem like she was under the influence of drugs or plain stupidity- and giggled softly. “I'm looking forward to it, Dr. Lecter.”

When the psychiatrist opened the door and held it open for the thin, hateful woman, a gaunt-looking boy with tousled black hair rose hastily from the sofa. The boy nervously wiped his hands off his oversized jeans and pushed his round glasses further down his nose with the tip of his finger.

“Come on, boy,” Petunia snarled as she snapped past her cousin. In her rush to get the boy out of Dr. Lecter's sight- really, his freakiness was palpable as soon as you came into contact with him- she knocked over a vase. Petunia turned to the mess she'd made and looked sharply at her cousin. “Can you really be any more annoying?! Look what you made me do.”

“Sorry, aunt Petunia,” Harry muttered as he grabbed a box of tissues to dab the water off the floor. "Go to the car, I'll come as soon as this is cleaned up."

Petunia's thin lips were squeezed into a thin line, but the woman nodded when she felt Hannibal's gaze upon her. It was as if she felt the man's hot breath on her neck, accusing and vindictive. "Don't betray my trust, boy."

As soon as the spiteful woman was out of the room, Harry dropped to his knees to clear the broken vase. Fortunately, the shards were large and it appeared that there were no small pieces of glass scattered on the floor. “Sir?” Harry asked hesitantly, looking up at Hannibal. “Is there a trash can I can put the shards in?”

Hannibal nodded and walked silently to the gray trash can he'd hidden behind a cupboard. The bin was ugly but functional, but it went against Hannibal's sense of decor to put the plastic monstrosity in plain sight. As Harry silently put the shards in the bin, Hannibal cleared his throat gently. “You are aware that it is not your responsibility to clean up your aunt's mess?”

Harry shrugged. “It's easier this way. She can hide behind the fact that her accident is cleaned up so that she is no longer blamed and I am freed from her shrill voice for a few minutes."

“Do you often pay for the mistakes of others?”

Harry raised a single eyebrow. “Am I your patient, Dr. Lecter? Because I can assure you that I don't react well to people digging into my brain." A faint smile played around the boy's lips. "I'm not a fan of being possessed, either by people or by justice."

Hannibal smiled as he deposited the crushed flowers in a bin he used for biowaste. Although this was not his own practice, in his opinion, it was polite to separate his waste here too. “What a stark take on my inquiry, I assure you my interest was meant to be kind and compassionate.”

"I don't need your pity," Harry said softly as he mopped up the wasted water with the tissues.

“There is a subtle difference between pity and compassion, but one that can be very important if your ego allows it,” Hannibal said in a clipped tone.

Harry's green eyes bore into Hannibal's dark eyes for the first time. What he saw made the doctor gasp. He saw a haunted soul, a boy wholly filled with darkness, but as his actions were determined to keep it closely within. The boy seemed to be aware of his depressive, perhaps violent thoughts. The sharpness of his gaze, the fervor of the green of his eyes, indicated that he was explosive. Hannibal could only guess why this boy was so full of carefully bottled rage, so full that he only needed a tap to get dangerously bubbling.

Harry looked quizzically at his aunt's psychiatrist. The man seemed infallible. Had Harry met the man several years, no, only a few months ago, he would have lowered his shields immediately. The man had something disarming about him, he had a sharp look, with even sharper cheekbones. He was not handsome in the classical sense of the word. However, Harry couldn't deny that the doctor was undeniably attractive. Harry recognized something in his look, though, it was the same calculating look he'd seen on Lucius Malfoy. However, a certain twinkle of interest he could see in those brown eyes he immediately recognized as the one he often saw on Dumbledore.

“Will you contact my aunt for reimbursement for the vase?” Harry finally asked, carefully hiding his anger.

Hannibal tilted his head thoughtfully and looked at Harry with amusement. "Would she pay?"

Harry shrugged. “I am a delinquent who goes far away from Surrey to a reformed school. The insurance company has reimbursed my family for destruction attributed to my instability for years, a vase won't make a difference."

“It was a Baccarat vase, retail price ￡9,700 pounds,” Hannibal said. He pointed to the small mark under the base of the broken vase. “I should know, after all, it was my gift to Dr. Vermont."

Harry's eyes widened when he heard the prize. “So much money for just a vase?”

Hannibal waved Harry's surprise away. “Baccarat is unique in its unrelenting commitment to craftmanship and luxury, as each of the Maison's pieces are investments capable of becoming family heirlooms.”

“Dr. Vermont has no family, at least no children, what good are family heirlooms to him?” said Harry, still looking bewildered at the glass pieces now in the wastepaper basket.

Hannibal looked at Harry inquiringly as if he were a butterfly pinned to a piece of cardboard. The calculating look suddenly disappeared, giving way to a slow grin, possibly making the man look even more dangerous than Lucius Malfoy dressed in his Death Eater robes. “It was an easy gift for a man I don't know well.”

Harry looked around the practice, then set his eyes on Hannibal. “You do a lot for a man you don't know very well.”

A wide smile was the reward for Harry's remark. “It's good to have multiple options in friends,” was all Hannibal said about it.

"You just said you barely know the man."

“Dr. Vermont would fiercely fight your assumption, he sees in me a true friend. After all, the gift was expensive enough that he wouldn't question my true intentions- only a true friend, an old student of theirs, would spend that much money on an anniversary,” Hannibal said, gesturing at the shards in the trash can.

"It's starting to look like you're the delinquent and I'm the good citizen," Harry muttered as he pondered Hannibal's cryptic response.

"Isn't that an interesting thought?" Hannibal still said with a teasing smile on his face.

Harry immediately thought of his godfather, Sirius who all his life had to struggle with the stigma associated with the name Black. How he had to prove to everyone that he was not Sirius Black , but only Sirius. That he was something beyond his name. Only to end up in Azkaban without trial, innocent, without even his friend Remus to support him. How fuckin' sad it was then to end up in another golden prison after his escape, like a bird forbidden to fly.

“My godfather died not long ago,” Harry said without really knowing why he shared this with this complete stranger. Hannibal looked at him in silence, a barely perceptible nod of his head prompting Harry to continue. “Everyone thought he was a murderer and a traitor. He wasn't, though. He was not pure goodness. He had his fair share of obscurity in him, but he wasn't a bad man. The real culprit was the so-called innocent civilian, who had been hiding like a sniffing, crawling rat.”

Harry looked away from the shards glittering in the cheap gray bin, an ironic fact now that the fancy vase was suddenly worth less than the bin. How he wished he could make this happen to Bellatrix Lestrange, or Peter Pettigrew, that they would fall off their pedestal like dirt under Harry's shoes. “Two years ago I saved his life. The life of the rat, I mean. I stopped my godfather when he wanted to kill him. Sometimes I think about how my life would have turned out differently if I had given my godfather the satisfaction of taking the life that belonged to him.”

“You have experience with people behind a mask,” Hannibal said in a soft voice. His eyes, however, were still sharp, dangerously glittering as he listened to Harry's story.

“I know enough to understand that most people will never see that my aunt is a terrible person, nobody ever looks behind the mask. Even though she's not on my list, I can't wait for the day when I never have to see her again."

A loud horn, which Harry recognized instantly from the sound coming from Aunt Petunia's car, interrupted Harry's musings and caused the thin, dark-haired boy to shrink back and move slowly toward the exit. "I'm sorry, Doctor," Harry said hastily. "I've made my aunt wait too long."

When he put his hand on the door handle, he heard the exotic voice of the psychiatrist. “What happens to the people on your list?”

“In my fantasy or in real life?” Harry whispered as he jerked open the door. Before closing the door behind him, he could just hear the psychiatrist's words.

"Does it matter, amazing boy?"

Chapter Text

Harry had gone out of his way not to end up in the same situation as the last time his aunt had an appointment with Dr. Lecter. He did everything in his power to make sure that his aunt would leave him at home for her next appointment- even if it meant being home alone. His aunt had already decided some time ago that her visits to the psychiatrist should be as little visible as possible to the rest of the family. This meant that she had planned a weekly outing for Dudley and Vernon that happened to fall on the same afternoon as her appointments. It was really nothing more than a smokescreen- everyone knew she was going to the psychiatrist, but everyone pretended they didn't know.

However, with the summer holidays in full swing, this meant that Harry would stay home alone when his aunt lay down on Dr. Vermont’s sofa, shedding many tears over the ongoing troubles her neighbors caused or the eternal thorn in her side: Harry. However, his aunt and uncle could not allow Harry to stay home alone when Petunia was away. This wasn't in concern for Harry, no, it was a concern for the condition of the house, belongings, and most importantly: the status they had built in the neighbourhood.

For Harry, this caused minimal discomfort; the appointments with Dr. Vermont were only once, occasionally twice a week. Although Harry was dragged to the practice in Guildford by his aunt, she never spoke to him and ignored his presence. This suited him just fine, it was a welcome break from the long list of chores, plus Dr. Vermont’s waiting room was cooled by an air conditioner.

Harry had only been to his aunt's appointments three times. The first appointment had been with her usual psychiatrist (Dr. Vermont), and the last two appointments were with Dr. Lecter. His aunt had loudly complained that the appointments with Dr. Vermont were taken over by an American- who were known for rude and rowdy behavior. She'd feared that a snarky, sweaty, and insolent man would take the place of her perfect, normal doctor… only to lament that a young Eastern European man was sitting in Dr. Vermont’s chair. Harry had chuckled when he remembered Petunia's complaining because her description of an American had resembled the walrus she herself had as a husband.

After two appointments with Dr. Lecter, however, Petunia reconsidered her prejudice and concluded that the doctor might have been the best thing that had happened to her. The praise for the European- because that was still better than American- was not over and she looked forward to seeing the sharp lines of his face more often. And that was precisely what was a problem for Harry. He wanted to see Dr. Lecter as little as possible.

Not now that he'd been talking about Sirius. Not now that he'd caught his eye.

It was, of course, nothing more than a feeling- a theory Harry had, but until now Harry had learned to listen to his instincts. His instincts were sometimes wrong- the fiasco at the Ministry of Magic being the greatest example- but he knew he was right now. Dr. Lecter had looked at him the same way Madam Umbridge had looked at him. It had been a look of cool calculation, but also pure interest and curiosity. The only thing missing from Harry's hypothesis was whether the interest should be interpreted negatively or positively. After many hours of pondering on the subject (Was Dr. Lecter more like Umbridge or like Ginny's obsession with him in his second year) he decided it didn't matter: Dr. Lecter had looked at him like would a frog laid out on a cutting board during a biology class; a damn interesting subject, but with a deadly outcome for the poor animal.

Harry had therefore resolved to keep a low profile and get out of the way of any interaction with Dr. Lecter. After all, this had been the advice of his Head of House, Professor McGonagall. She had told him to keep quiet around Umbridge, advice that suited Dr. Lecter as well. Easiest would be to stay home on Privet Drive. However, if his aunt was determined to take him to her appointment, he might suggest that he would wait in the car… In the summer… with no air conditioning. Really not a good option, but better than waiting in the same building as Dr. Lecter

And so it was unacceptable for Harry to sit in the comfortable chair in Dr. Vermont’s waiting room. His aunt had turned white when he suggested staying home alone, even the prospect of cleaning the kitchen and bathroom was not enough motivation to get over her fear. Aunt Petunia had hesitated to leave the boy in the car, but pamphlets scattered in city parking lots warning of the dangers of leaving children and dogs in cars eventually caused the thin woman to reluctantly take the boy along.

Harry looked at the clock on the wall and sighed, just another fifteen minutes, and then his aunt's appointment would be over. There was only one exit and no hiding places. There was a good chance the doctor would see him, but only if Dr. Lecter chose not to see his aunt out, Harry's presence would go unnoticed.

The black-haired boy took a deep breath and stared at the closed door. It was possible that he was mistaken, perhaps Dr. Lecter is really nothing more than a psychiatrist and not the Muggle variant of Mr. Malfoy.

His green eyes found the hands of the clock. Ten more minutes.

What had Professor McGonagall said again when Harry had been sent to her, agitated from Umbridge's class? "Have a biscuit. And sit down.” That was something Harry could do. After all, he was already sitting, and on the tray by the coffee maker were some biscuits.

Slowly Harry stood up and selected a tasty-looking biscuit. Then he sat stiffly on the chair and took a bite. He moaned softly as the sweet morsel melted in his mouth. His eyes closed and his hand was now moving back up to his mouth to eat the rest of the biscuit.

He had just convinced himself that the doctor was not interested in him and that last week's look could be interpreted as kindness and professional interest when the door quietly opened. Petunia and Dr. Lecter were not talking and the woman went into the waiting room, leafing through her small diary.

"I'm sure he'll be available tomorrow," said Petunia, scribbling something in the little flowered book. "His chores will be done by then."

“Every individual has a critical need to engage in occupations and thus feel alive and recognized as a valuable citizen, it would be really helpful for any teen to fulfill their summers,” said Dr. Lecter with a sweet smile to Petunia.

Petunia looked sourly at Harry, who now looked anxiously from his aunt to the doctor. “Unfortunately, I only get ingratitude in return.”

“And that's why it's good for Mr. Potter to engage with an objective and impartial service provider like myself," said Dr. Lecter shifting his gaze to Harry. “Provided Mr. Potter agrees, of course.”

"I'm Harry's guardian, I decide what's right for him," Petunia snapped. Her expression was filled with disgust as if it hurt her to admit that Harry had been entrusted to her. That he was part of her perfect family. Her attitude, however, was on edge, making it clear that she was in charge of her cousin's fortunes.

“And what a good job you do for your nephew. The fact that you are seeking help for your nephew is admirable and I do not disavow your influence,” Hannibal said as his sharp eyes surveyed the boy's worn clothes. Truly, how all these years the family went unreported for neglecting their nephew was beyond comprehension. It was obvious that youth care in Great Britain was just as good as in the United States, a wonderfully large fishpond for Hannibal to find his prey.

However, he put a charming smile on his face and gestured to the unkempt boy. “However, I would like to have Mr. Potter's consent, an unwilling patient is a lost cause in my opinion.”

Before Harry could answer, a shrill scream echoed through the room. “Patient, did you say?” Petunia asked suddenly in a high, unpleasant voice. “Just now you talked about counseling, not taking him as a new patient… how much money is this going to cost me?!”

Hannibal held up his hands in a calming manner and placed his right hand on the rigid woman's shoulder. The bones of her shoulder felt fragile under his large hand, the realization that he would need little strength to break it made him examine the woman. Her pale and unhealthy complexion indicated that the woman was not getting enough sunlight on her skin. A vitamin D deficiency was therefore a logical conclusion, perhaps an unhealthy diet caused a further disintegration of her bones. All he had to do was press her against the wall to hear the cracking sound of her collarbones breaking. Some of the bodies were difficult to reshape into the image in his mind's eye. He knew, however, that Petunia's body would be astonishingly easy to bend when her eyes had turned a dull color from death.

“It is only a matter of speaking, Mrs. Dursley. However, I can assure you that I do not make time for everyone after my office hours. I consider it a favor to friends, how can I ask for money when I see a young man in need?”

Petunia pursed her lips, making the skin wrinkle around her mouth like a plum that's been in the sun too long. “Indeed.”

She looked at Harry and raised her upper lip impatiently. "Well! What do you say, boy?”

Harry blinked in surprise. “What am I saying- of what, aunt?”

“A conversation with Dr. Lecter. At seven o'clock in the evening."

The expression on Harry's face reminded Hannibal of a young deer staring into the headlights of a car. Although the boy's eyes were an unforgettable green, they were wide and his lips were hunched slightly apart in a pose of pure shock. However, the moment was over in a blink of an eye when the green eyes suddenly took on a cheeky glow. The lips, which had just been immovably formed into a round shape in amazement, now curled up into an almost smug grin.

Harry looked at Dr. Lecter straight on and slightly tilted his head. "I think I would greatly benefit from talking to the doctor," Harry purred softly. He then looked at his aunt apologetically. "But I can't possibly accept it."

“May I inquire why not?”

“I am away from home a lot of time, only in the summer months, I am with my family. I feel… compelled in my passion to cook for my family. It's something I'd love to share with what's left of my family," Harry said as he thought about the many hours and days he spent cooking for his family. He couldn't help but chuckle at his own words, for although he had to share his cooking with the Dursleys, he had almost never had a taste of his own work.

When Harry looked at the doctor, he saw that his words had barely made an impression. The stillness in his face made Harry rush to clarify. “We always eat as a family at seven o'clock. Given the travel time from Little Whinging to Guildford and back, I can't possibly cook and have a conversation with you."

A wide smile broke out on Dr. Lecter's face, a row of teeth sharp and gleaming like an open drawer full of knives. “Looks like we share a passion, Mr. Potter, and really your timing couldn't be more perfect.”

A short nod in the direction of Petunia was the only interruption in the fluid motion the doctor made in the direction of Harry. The steady steps reminded Harry of a Dementor sliding, causing him to involuntarily take a step back. Dr. Lecter stopped right in front of Harry, just too close to be relaxing, but far enough to stay within the socially accepted norm.

“Before treating the illness of the mind, I treated the illness of the flesh,” Hannibal began, staring into Harry's dilated pupils. “When I stopped being a surgeon, I traded my scalpels for kitchen knives. You could say that my passion for anatomy has transformed into the culinary arts.”

“So you like to cook?” Harry asked, blinking in surprise.

"Indeed. It is a passion of mine to try new, exciting recipes. However, it has been some time since I cooked with a sous chef. Perhaps that will be possible tomorrow, after that we can enjoy the fruits of our labor together?”

Harry looked a little confused at his aunt, surprised that she had agreed to a plan that would result in him being fed more than two slices of toast. The sour and thrifty expression on Aunt Petunia's face told him enough, however; the invitation for Harry to eat at the good doctor’s place was not planned.

“I don't know if that's a good idea,” said Petunia in a shrill voice.

“As you said, Mrs. Dursley, I would just have a conversation with Harry, hopefully giving him a building block in constructing an enhanced self. Perhaps even a set-up to his true potential,” Hannibal gave Petunia a charming smile that suddenly made the man look much more boyish, and therefore much more disarming. “Food may be essential as fuel for the body, but good food is fuel for the soul.”

Petunia rolled her eyes annoyed and sighed deeply. “Fine. The brat can stay for dinner.” She looked at Harry sharply, as if he were the one who had orchestrated the dinner. She jabbed painfully against the raven-haired boy's shoulder with her slender, piercing finger. "You make sure you get home on your own though, Vernon takes Duddikins and me out to dinner."

“Yes, Aunt Petunia,” Harry said automatically and as melodically as a robot from one of the movies Dudley liked to watch.

"I'll make sure Harry gets home safely, of course," Hannibal said with that charming smile still in place.

Petunia seemed tired of the conversation about Harry and cleared her throat in irritation. "I'll drop Harry off here at six tomorrow, will that suffice?"

Hannibal nodded, "At that time I will finish my last appointment." He turned to Harry and added: "You can take a seat in this waiting room and I'll get to you as soon as possible."

Harry shrugged, resigned to the fact that he will be forced to spend several hours with Dr. Lecter. He consoled himself with the thought that the time he would spend with the doctor could hardly be worse than the classes with Snape. "I'll be there."

“Splendid,” said Hannibal, clapping his hands softly. “Hope you like meat, none of what would be served is vegetarian.”

Harry glanced at his aunt, who was already waiting in the hallway, ready to leave. He thought of the time he had eaten Gillyweed just before entering the waters of the Great Lake. He grimaced as he imagined the texture of the plant. “I've never really been a fan of veggies, and what you're serving me won't be the strangest thing I've ever eaten.”

Hannibal raised his eyebrow. “Are you an adventurous eater?”

“No, but open-minded. My friends say I act before I think-  I guess I'm the same with food,” Harry said, shuffling his feet uncomfortably. He then looked again at the door through which his aunt had disappeared. "Now I don't want to say she does it, but I'm afraid my aunt would leave without me."

"Another reason to join me for dinner tomorrow, it will be a welcome change from your aunt."

A cautious smile formed on Harry's face and he couldn't help but tease. “You only have to converse with her once a week and you get paid for it. I get Petunia to eat every day; breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” Harry said with an exaggerated roll of the eye.

"I'd rather not have her to eat- too stringy and stale," Hannibal said with a straight face.

For the second time- or was it the third- Harry was taken aback. He stared at Dr. Lecter and tried to tell from his body language what the man meant. The brown eyes, however, glittered with mirth and instantly reminded him of Sirius' -sometimes- naughty remarks. "Too stringy and stale," Harry repeated slowly, a wide smile slowly appearing on his face.

"Merlin!" Harry gasped, laughing. "Fuck! I'd rather not have her to eat, even as an amuse-bouche!" He watched Dr. Lecter mischievously and gave him a lop-sided grin, totally forgetting his previous reserve for the man. “My cousin and uncle aren't much tastier either- unless you have a good pork belly recipe.”

Hannibal shook his head with a laugh as he followed Harry toward the exit. Animated, he put a hand around his shoulder and pressed the boy against him for a moment. “I'm not a big fan of fried pork belly, but I can make good use of fat. The rendering process allows me to extract lard from adipose tissue. Lard has a neutral taste and contains healthy monounsaturated fats, just like olive oil. I can also bake delicious things with lard- take the biscuits, I baked them myself with lard as a substitute for butter.”

Harry looked over his shoulder at the tray with biscuits and smiled at Dr. Lecter. His green eyes twinkled for the first time in weeks with barely hidden glee. “The idea for my cousin and uncle sounds great- you had me at 'biscuits' . I see you tomorrow."

Chapter Text

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE HAS DINNER AT DR. LECTER’S?!” shouted Vernon with all his might. Not too gently, Petunia grabbed his arm and pulled him deeper into the kitchen, closing the kitchen window hastily at the same time.

“What I meant-” Petunia hissed shyly looking out the window, searching for a curious neighbor who would look over the fence to see what was causing all the commotion. “-Is that Dr. Lecter has offered to treat the boy.”

Harry detested his morbid curiosity and crept closer. He hid behind one of the comfortable armchairs that dotted the living room and unashamedly overheard his aunt and uncle's conversation. When his uncle let out a dejected sigh, Harry had to give credit to the man’s common sense- after all, he couldn't understand why his aunt had agreed that he would talk to the psychiatrist. After all, it seemed contradictory, what should Harry discuss: his childhood (where to start; the cupboard under the stairs, or the constant belittling he had to endure from his family) or his schooling (with an extensive explanation that he learns to transfigure an animal into a glass goblet). With a grin, he imagined the conversation he would have if he confessed that he had tried to torture a woman with a spell, or how he had to fight for his life every year- like some high school graduation- against some insane psychopath.

“What I don't understand, Pet , is what benefit we would get from having the boy speak to the psychiatrist. It could even be harmful… to us,” Vernon said more quietly than Harry had ever heard him.

The hesitation was audible in Petunia's voice, formidable from her husband's reaction. “I have discussed extensively with Dr. Lecter about the boy. Dr. Lecter knows of his… deplorable character and expressed his understanding and compassion. The doctor believes that he can improve the boy's rebellious behavior."

“What if the boy does something… freakish?” Vernon said as his mustache began to quiver, a tick the man had when got stressed or angry.

“The boy can't use magic outside of school,” Petunia began, to which Vernon vehemently, “Don't use that word!” growled.

“Any outbursts of magic are due to his nasty nature and reinforce my story I have uttered about the boy,” continued Petunia, not paying attention to her husband, who was now quite flushed.

“Popkin,” Vernon began in an almost pleading tone, “it's still risky, and it's not worth that much…”

“It ensures us that we can finally go to the restaurant tonight. The one you've been wanting to take us to for weeks. I've also told the doctor a lot about the boy- he knows he's a compulsive liar, I've provided him with additional documentation of his time at St Grogory's.”

"Why on earth would you do that?!" shouted Vernon, though his volume was many decibels lower than his earlier screams.

“Dr. Lecter asked about it,” Petunia replied bitingly. “It fits with his records and further consolidates our story about the boy. His teachers have described several times how the boy is connected to fights and other unexplained disturbances. The boy's referral to St Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys has been added to the file."

“And the conversation with Dr. Lecter?” said Vernon in anticipation.

Petunia gave her husband a frugal smile. “We, as his guardians, have the right to review Dr. Lecter’s dossier on the boy.”

"Is that right?" Vernon asked, curling his broad mustache into a calculated smile. “So there will be a report?”

Petunia nodded. “Dr. Lecter insisted not to take the boy on as a patient, but to label their time together as conversations. In this way, he has no professional secrecy, but he can draw his conclusions and state them in the file we have about the boy.”

Though Vernon was reassured by Petunia's words, he rubbed thoughtfully at the wiry whiskers that adorned his face. “I can see that there are benefits, but how did you come to this decision? Why is Dr. Lecter interested in the brat?”

As gently as his stiff muscles would allow, Harry crawled closer to the wall that separated him from his aunt and uncle. He held his breath, not wanting to miss his aunt's reply, for he too wanted to know why the psychiatrist was really interested in him. It was also another urgent question for Harry to be answered because until now his aunt had barred any person who showed any moderate interest in her nephew.

“He's not interested in the brat. His sole focus is on helping me. He is eager to allay my apprehensions and fears, and must therefore fathom the greatest source of them. Hence his interest in the boy,” Petunia stated in an unquestionable tone. "I expect the conversation with the boy to revolve around the conversations with me."

“Did he say that?” Vernon asked curiously.

“He implied this, his exact words escaped me, but it was along the lines that he could only help me properly if he could understand the cause of my anxiety. He said that a conversation with the boy could give him insight into the deepest depths of the most twisted souls he had encountered as a psychiatrist if he were to believe my story.”

Vernon nodded firmly and rubbed his hands. "You're sure the man's opinion of the boy is already… distorted?"

Petunia rolled her eyes and curled her upper lip into a sneer. “He wasn't talking about me when he spoke of a twisted soul! Trust me, Vernon, this evening will help me, as well as us as a family.”

While the muggle couple was bickering over trivial matters such as potential costs that could affect Harry's conversation with Dr. Lecter- a foolish endeavor in Harry's opinion, Aunt Petunia already knew this would be free of charge - Harry turned away from the kitchen and walked quietly to his bedroom. He stepped effortlessly over the huge mountains of broken and never-used toys and dropped onto his creaky bed. He felt the broken coil spring of his mattress prick his back, but this time it didn't bother him. Harry's mind was far away, considering the implications of the conversation between Petunia and Vernon.

It seemed that Dr. Lecter had spared neither compliments nor clever reasoning to induce Petunia to put him in touch with Harry. Though people like Draco and Snape would deny it, Harry wasn't a dumb or dull boy. He was not interested in books and misery-long lectures but was good at connecting dots. He was also very adept at finding intriguing things and things that weren't right, only to get into trouble.

‘It wasn't his fault that trouble found him,’ Harry thought as he stared at the many cracks in his ceiling. Trouble seemed to follow him and the latest was Dr. Lecter, but thankfully, this current problem seemed less dangerous to Fluffy- while the three-headed dog, trying to tear and devour him, was easy to please with some music. No, it seemed that Dr. Lecter was mostly full of curiosity and bad jokes, and less full of murderous tendencies that wanted to end Harry's life prematurely.

For a moment Harry thought of the predatory look the man had gotten when they talked about motives for giving a particular gift or maintaining a friendship. Harry could still remember the moment, it was as if he was consciously sharing something made by the doctor into a closely guarded secret. It had been so fleeting, though, and the man's charm had been so recognizably mischievous that Harry had never felt uneasy.

For now, Harry put his worries aside and decided to try to enjoy the evening ahead. The prospect of being able to eat well before the Hogwarts welcome party started was mouth-watering. Even if the man only wanted to talk about his aunt, he could still enjoy the freedom and, hopefully, the good food.

***

At a quarter past five, he was dropped off by his aunt in front of the building in which the psychiatrist's practice was located. Nerves raced through his body, his baggy clothes now seemed to fit tightly around his torso, making it harder to breathe. Harry curled his fingers behind his collar and pulled the fabric down. He cursed his aunt softly for being dropped off at the doctor's so early. The prospect of waiting in suspense for a long time was terrifying and made him try again to fashion his baggy shirt. He was glad these moves weren't made anywhere close to Dr. Lecter to be seen, knowing that he behaved the same way he did when he had a date with Cho.

‘This is nothing like Cho,’ he admonished himself as he took shaky steps toward the waiting room. Although he was the first to recognize the beauty, or rather handsomeness, of a man, he could honestly say that he didn't think that Dr. Lecter was particularly handsome. Besides the fact that the man was much older than himself, he was not conventionally attractive like Cho, Ginny or even Malfoy were. The man had a certain sharpness, aristocracy in his face, and an enormous intellect that glittered behind his dark eyes. Dr. Lecter's face appeared to be unmoved when you spoke to him, but when you shared something that interested him, those sinful lips curled and fine lines appeared around his eyes.

In his mind he heard his godfather's barking laughter as he realized that thought of the older man as attractive and worse; that he wished the man found him interesting too so that he could see the fine lines of laughter on his face more often. 'Merlin! I'm like a Hufflepuff in love,’ Harry thought, shaking his head as he settled into the waiting room.

He was so absorbed in his own anxious adolescent thoughts that he was startled when a man suddenly started talking to him. “Also here to see Dr. Lecter?” asked a man with an American accent.

Harry looked up from the palms of his hands where he had planned his head seconds before. Diagonally across from him sat a well-groomed but surly man with dark curly hair. The man seemed friendly enough to him, with big fawn eyes and lips that seemed to smile constantly. Slowly Harry smiled kindly and looked around again. He was surprised he hadn't seen the man before, where his many encounters with dark wizards had made him almost paranoid. “Er, Yup,” Harry said uncomfortably. "I have an appointment with him."

The man then began to leaf nervously through a small diary, his wry fingers searching for the correct date. Harry watched this behavior at his leisure and noted with some satisfaction that he wasn't the only one reacting to the doctor. He even saw a thin trickle of transparency run down the fat man's neck before it was blotted out by a luxurious handkerchief. “Ah!” the man exclaimed happily. “I do have an appointment at half past five… I was starting to have my doubts.”

Harry tilted his head, not much different than when, as an eleven-year-old boy, he listened in astonishment to the boa constrictor's answer behind the glass at the zoo back. The man seemed genuinely relieved and almost blissful to see that he had an appointment with Dr. Lecter. His green eyes flashed briefly at the clock on the wall to see that it was only a few minutes before 5:30, before returning his attention to the American man. Seeing the American staring at him, he wrung a polite smile and said, "I'm afraid that I’m rather early."

This seemed to reassure the skittish man and even give him some courage, as he rose and then took a seat next to Harry. "Don't be ashamed of being early," he said in a low tone as if speaking to an injured kitten. “I am always too early for my appointment with Dr. Lecter- I suspect he hates it when you're late for no good reason."

The man smiled briefly, his eyes were absent as if he were reliving a peaceful and pleasant memory. His eyes, however, opened nervously after a few seconds and stared at Harry intently. “Not that Dr. Lecter would ever show such emotions as hatred or disgust! No, he is far too polite and courteous for that!”

Harry stared in amazement at the nervous man, whose behavior bordered on an obsessive idolatry of the doctor. It reminded Harry of Wormtail's sniffing and shuffling behavior; whining and crawling at the hems of Voldemort's long robe. The only difference was that he saw no terror in the American's eyes, only the deep-seated fear of not being liked by Dr. Lecter.

“I don't believe your words would offend Dr. Lecter,” he said not unkindly. ‘I don't think he finds you interesting enough, ’ Harry thought. There was no doubt that Wormtail would have been killed by Voldemort long ago if he hadn't been of any use to the dark wizard. This American fell into the same category; he was most likely not a friend of Dr. Lecter, nothing more than a paying patient.

The American didn't seem to notice his train of thought and gave Harry a wide smile. “I think we could be good friends, I think we're cut from the same cloth… Are you cheese-people by any chance?” the man suddenly added quickly.

Harry blinked in surprise, not thinking for the first time how he'd ended up in this situation. “Not in particular, but if it fits with a particular dish…”

"Precisely!" the man shouted enthusiastically, his volume uncontrolled, his voice shrill. “You and I are the same! Like me, you show up too early for your appointment with Dr. Lecter, I wouldn't be surprised if you crossed the ocean- like me-  so that your appointment with Dr. Lecter could take place as usual.”

“Crossing the ocean?” Harry sputtered uncomfortably. ‘Surely the man hadn't-’

The American nodded vigorously. “I used to live in a suburb of Washington, just inside Maryland territory,” the man began, speaking quickly. Harry nodded dazedly, having heard of Washington and knowing it was on the east coast of the United States, but had no further knowledge of the country. “But I now live in Baltimore, where Dr. Lecter has his practice.”

Harry looked at the clock on the wall, it was now a few minutes past 5:30 and still, Hannibal hadn't appeared. He could hardly blame the man now that he had been allowed to meet his patient.

“The step to take a holiday in England was certainly not hardship,” the American added with a chuckle. "I mean; how much effort does it take me to follow my favorite psychiatrist to another country? It's not that I had to move this time to be closer to him!”

Harry swallowed uncomfortably and slowly moved away from the man. ‘He's insane,’ ran through his mind several times, and he kept staring at the door, waiting for Dr. Lecter's presence. “Dr. Lecter was informed of this?” Harry squeaked in a dry voice. “Or-or was the appointment made in America?”

The American frowned for a moment and stared at his diary. “I booked this time slot, I'm sure Dr. Lecter-”

Suddenly the door to the treatment room opened. A neatly dressed doctor appeared in the opening, a handkerchief neatly folded in the breast pocket of his jacket. The brown eyes, which reminded Harry of expensive brandy his uncle sometimes drank, looked first at Harry, then glided to the American. "Franklyn, I must confess I wasn't expecting you."

Harry's suspicions were confirmed by this as he watched the American's nervous shuffle, waiting for a response. This was more suspense than he'd had on his summer vacations until then - taking away the Dementor attack. The American’s - Franklyn's- shallow breaths, however, made Harry aware of how close he was to the man and wished he'd better guessed the prospect and distanced himself when he had the chance.

“I was just talking about it with my new friend,” Franklyn said, his nerves clearly audible in his voice. "I was sure my time slot would still be in your calendar, if I misjudged this, I'd be happy to make a new appointment."

The eyes of Dr. Lecter didn't tell anything about the feelings inside the man. There was no humour, no lines of laughter that appeared mischievous as when he spoke to Harry. "Coincidentally, I still have room for half an hour," said Dr. Lecter. “I would like to point out that I have duties, for this reason, I have temporarily referred you to Dr. Gladstone.”

“It felt like you wanted to refer me to Dr. Gladstone indefinitely when you were already the reference!” Franklyn reacted indignantly. “I went to an appointment with Dr. Gladstone, but he couldn't understand me like you. It feels like we're friends- we share everything! It's like with my English friend here- he's cheese people as well!”

‘Wow,’ Harry thought, staring at Franklyn in bewilderment. The realization that he was not the most pathetic figure in this room was almost liberating. While the loss of Sirius was crippling and his guilt made him deeply withdrawn, his depressive and self-destructive behavior was less pitiful than Franklyn's. The man was sincere and seemed to really think he was on friendly terms with Harry- he even seemed to think that Dr. Lecter was his friend, while it was clear to Harry that he was nothing more than a patient with obsessive tendencies.

“While I'm glad you're forging friendly ties so quickly here in England, I think we'd better continue this conversation elsewhere,” Hannibal said in a measured voice. He waved his hand toward the open door. "Shall we?"

Happy as a rambunctious puppy, Franklyn got up and followed Hannibal, but not before pressing his warm, sticky hand into Harry's. “I'm so glad I got to meet you,” he grinned widely.

"Yeah," Harry managed to get out just before Franklyn deftly pushed through Dr. Lecter was led inside. When the American was out of sight, Dr. Lecter apologizes to Harry. The young wizard realized that this look from the doctor was closer to self-pity than anything he would probably ever see and couldn't help sending a sweet smile his way.

"I'm afraid I won't be ready until after six," said Dr. Lecter gesturing to his office. The man's mouth twitched for a moment in displeasure, and it seemed the doctor wanted to say something else.

“I didn't mind the waiting,” Harry said when he was met with silence. “This meeting was truly enlightening. I feel a lot lighter already. Let me know if I have to save you though, I'm a very convincing Savior," Harry added with a wink.

A narrow smile and a polite nod of the head were all Dr. Lecter showed to tell Harry he'd heard him, before closing the door softly behind him. The small smile, however, was enough to create a jumble of butterflies in Harry's stomach and contentedly, the teenager turned his attention to one of the magazines neatly laid out on the side table.

When after half an hour the door opened again, it was as if no time had passed. The magazines had provided enough distraction. Moreover, Harry had not lied that he felt lighter in ages and for the first time since the death of his godfather felt a little bit Harry again.

Franklyn walked away without much ado, only a small wave of his hand at Harry was his goodbye. Harry was happy about this, for he really didn't know how long such a goodbye would take before the man had finally finished speaking. The stark look on Dr. Lecter gave a little insight into what had happened during the conversation with Franklyn, but frankly, Harry didn't care. He was hungry and creeped out by the older man's behavior.

“Thank you for your patience,” said Dr. Lecter as he locked the door of his office moments later. He'd taken off his jacket and draped it casually over his arm, but in a way that wouldn't wrinkle the garment. He took his time putting out all the lights and setting the alarm for the night.

Harry shrugged. “I had nothing better to do. Besides, my aunt had dropped me off almost an hour early. I knew there was a possibility that I would have to wait a long time.”

“Yet,” said Dr. Lecter after placing his hand lightly on Harry's shoulder with a smile to steer him in the right direction to his car. "I should have foreseen that Franklyn might have popped up, but this option hadn't crossed my mind." Dr. Lecter graciously opened the front door of his rental car- a luxury brand, if Harry guessed right- for Harry and smiled gallantly.

Harry sniffed loudly at the doctor's words as he sank down into a soft, leather-trimmed chair. "You know he's a stalker, right?"

Dr. Lecter carefully placed his jacket and bag on the back seat of the car, then got behind the wheel and started the vehicle. “I am aware of his behavior,” he said slowly.

"He told me he moved to Baltimore to be closer to you."

"That fact had indeed become clear to me when Franklyn passed on the change of his billing address."

"So?" Harry asked, eyebrows raised.

Dr. Lecter looked to the side, amused, his lips curling into a mocking smile. "What is your question, Harry?"

Harry looked at him incredulously. “You are aware that this man would do anything for you? He'll follow you to the bloody end of the world if you'd like. In fact, he would kill for you if the situation called for it.”

“Franklyn is not a man who would kill anyone.”

Harry waved off this comment. "He would make a corpse disappear for you without question."

This elicited a broad grin from the doctor, without drawing his eyes away from the busy road. "I don't need his expertise for that, I can assure you," he said with a charming wink.

Harry grinned and shook his head. He thought again of Wormtail and how clumsily he would probably handle a corpse laid down by Voldemort. Without thinking about the hypothetical victim, Harry hoped the sniffing rat would have to go through life bumbling several times in order to clear the string of killed muggles as quickly as possible.

“I'm sure he'd give you his hand,” Harry muttered deep in thought.

“What use would his hand be to me?” Hannibal asked intrigued.

Surprised, Harry blinked and realized that he had spoken his thought aloud. He couldn't say he could use that hand in a ritual to resurrect himself- really, Dr. Lecter would then stare at him as strangely as he did at Franklyn. He hurriedly searched for possible use, then suddenly recalled their conversation about the uses of Dudley and Vernon's meat. A sadistic, yet innocent and mischievous grin appeared on Harry's young face.

“Finger food, perhaps?”

Chapter Text

When Dr. Lecter came to a stop in front of a stately and chic-looking house, Harry had to do his best not to self-consciously fidget at the hem of his much too baggy shirt. The house was at least as imposing as Grimmauld Place, in fact, Harry guessed it was bigger than his Godfather's house- even without the aid of magic. The front door was artfully lit, making the woodwork look even more exquisite. The doctor, however, seemed oblivious to the beautiful house and gracefully swung open the front door. “Please come in, Mr. Potter.”

Harry involuntarily stared at his worn-out sneakers, wondering if he should leave them by the door. He almost didn’t dare to step into this beautiful house on his filthy soles, and not for the first time hated his family for all the cast-offs he had received from Dudley. Dr. Lecter, however, seemed to have noticed his embarrassment and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Keep your shoes on, Mr. Potter, I'm a big believer in wearing footwear when cooking. Tragic accidents could easily happen when a sharpened knife falls on a bare foot. It only takes a second for an accident to occur, no matter how well you watch your cutting technique.”

Harry nodded and followed the man. Soon they arrived in a large kitchen with cookware and knives gleaming, all surfaces clean and tidy. It was in stark contrast to all the other kitchens Harry had seen in his life. His aunt and uncle's kitchen was neat but made of the cheapest materials. The magical kitchens he had seen, which were run by Mrs. Weasley, or like Hogwarts's, had been chaotic, busy, and messy. It was clear that Dr. Lecter liked to use this space and was careful with his belongings.

“Impressive,” was a statement Harry couldn't suppress. "Is this house yours?"

Hannibal opened a closet and pulled out two white aprons. He handed one to Harry, to which he quickly put his own on with practiced movements. The doctor then began to methodically wash his hands as he looked around with a smile.

“I was lucky that the residents of this house unexpectedly went elsewhere to spend their time. I am fortunate to be able to financially bear such burdens, which enabled me to take advantage of this opportunity immediately. When I return to Baltimore, I can choose to keep this property and rent it out-  it's never a bad idea to invest in real estate,” Hannibal said without bragging. His tone was neutral, even a little humble, which made this explanation sound very different from when the Malfoys had uttered it.

The doctor gestured to the sink as he himself walked to the large refrigerator and opened it. Harry did not miss the subtle command and he washed his hands dutifully. However, he continued to follow the doctor's movements out of the corner of his eye- an act that had become unnoticed typical over the past two years.

The doctor pulled out all sorts of vegetables, along with color-coordinated cutting boards. Two white bins emerged from the refrigerator, which, in Harry's best guess, contained meat. The man said nothing but prepared for the next meal with swift and precise movements. When Harry finished washing his hands, he couldn't control his curiosity anymore and came to stand next to Hannibal.

"Can I help you with something?" he asked, looking around Hannibal with great interest.

The older man laughed softly and gestured to the onions lying by a cutting board. “You would be a great help to me if you cut the onions into small cubes, Mr. Potter. Minced, if you will. I will then be able to make further preparations for making our evening meal.”

Harry nodded and smiled on hearing the easy one and quickly walked over to the cutting board. “I'll be able to do that, Dr. Lecter.”

“My friends call me Hannibal,” said the doctor without skipping a beat.

Harry reacted just as quickly and raised a teasing eyebrow. "Are we friends, Doctor?"

Hannibal spread demonstratively and grinned widely. “I don't allow just anyone into my kitchen, Mr. Potter. Only very good acquaintances and friends.”

As Harry chose a knife to cut the onions with, he nodded thoughtfully. His green eyes pinned down the doctor's as he pointed his sharp knife at the man. “You would think that the terms 'close acquaintances' and 'friends' would indicate how well you know someone. It's a title, isn't it?”

Hannibal pulled out an almost transparent long string from a bowl of water. He drained it and tied the ends with butcher's twine. “I think you know me better than most, Mr. Potter. Although we only spent a few moments together, I dare say I know you too.”

“Hmm,” Harry said thoughtfully as he cleaned his onions. Before he could make the first cut with the knife, however, Hannibal grabbed his wrist and replaced the blade with another. The doctor didn't step back and nestled snugly against Harry's back, looking over his shoulder at the boy's handling of the knife. When Harry had minced the first onion meekly and with a fiery blush on his cheeks with swift and skillful movements, Hannibal spoke again. “The Santoku knife works best for dicing medium to large onions. Their hollow ground blade design allows the knife to move smoothly through the onion when using a forward and down motion. I admit I expected to correct you in your technique but seem trained in preparing ingredients.”

Harry relaxed upon hearing these words. He was still enveloped in the warmth that the doctor's body offered, but no longer felt stiff in his presence. “I am intimately familiar with the knife, I have been using it for many years now.” He looked over his shoulder into the doctor's eyes and grinned, "Although I must admit I didn't know the name of your fancy knife."

Before Hannibal took a step back, he gently squeezed Harry's upper arm and opened the white bins. “Tonight we will feast on Boudin Noir, a delicious dish that originated in France. We will need the onions as a filling, as well as pieces of apple. I am sure you will enjoy this dish as much as I do.”

Hannibal then started peeling apples and stripping them of their cores. The quick tapping of knives on wooden planks was all you could hear in the kitchen for a few minutes. Harry finished his task first and used this moment to get a good look at the other man. He had to admit that the man was completely in his element, his movements coordinated. The only thing that didn't seem to cooperate was an unruly lock of hair that fell before his eyes, giving the man a casual appearance. It was a boyish look that made the doctor look many years younger.

“Why do you think I would enjoy it?” Harry finally asked to break the silence.

The doctor added the last of the apple cubes to his bowl and put his knife aside. “We were talking the other day about using fat, especially pork belly or fatback. We will need this ingredient for our sausage, as well as our other main ingredient.” He gestured to the other white container, where Harry could now see a red substance.

Harry peered into the box and tried to smell what it was. In the end, it was easy, the metallic smell was a dead giveaway - the bin was filled with blood. “Ahh, my family's metaphorical streaky fat, then perfect it with their blood?”

The doctor's chuckle sounded closer than Harry expected. Looking in his direction, he saw that the man was standing just a few steps away, carefully observing Harry's reactions. “This time I used the blood and fat of the black pig breed Bigorre, the oldest type of pig known in France. This noble black pig inhabited the Bigorre landscape since the time of the Romans. Due to the growth in demand, this breed even threatened to die out, these pigs only grow 450g per day while the 'modern' pig easily gains 800g per day. The carcass only contains 43 of the muscle - against 56% for 'modern' pork - but the fat is of exceptional quality."

"So we're going to eat black pudding," Harry said with a shit-eating grin when the man had finally finished speaking.

“Boudin Noir.”

“Indeed,” Harry responded in his best Snape impression. “So no donation from my dear relatives?” Though his voice was monotonous, bored, and almost sardonic like that of the potions professor, his green eyes twinkled with humor.

“That seemed premature to me, Mr. Potter. You don't think we're friends yet. Such an act- stripping the bodies of fat, not to mention exsanguinate the body- would require that title,” Hannibal said with a mischievous smile.

"Ah, but you said I already knew you and you knew me," Harry said as he demonstratively dipped his finger in the pig's blood. The red liquid clung to the tip of his finger, only a single drop dripping down. "This suggests we're almost blood brothers, isn't it?"

Harry let his finger float in the air, not quite sure what to do with his bloodied finger. “Bloody Gryffindor! ” he despised himself in his mind, nervously waiting to hear what the doctor thought of his defiant behavior.

Hannibal took a step in Harry's direction and curiously tilted his head, his dark eyes fixed on the bloody finger. “We could start by calling each other by our first name, and then go through life as blood brothers.”

"That sounds like a necessary step to befriending," Harry said, feeling like an idiot with his bloodied finger. “Hannibal,” he added hesitantly.

“Harry,” Hannibal breathed. When the man stood right in front of Harry, the younger wizard wanted to hastily wipe his bloodied finger on a cloth. Before he could do this, Hannibal grabbed his hand and with Harry's finger, he drew a bloody line from his gully above his lip, across his lips to his chin.

Harry caught his breath at this primitive, almost dangerous action and involuntarily licked his own clean lips. The doctor's eyes seemed darker than before, the red glow as much as the blood shining in the kitchen light. As the older man dipped his finger in the pig's blood and repeated the movement on Harry's philtrum, from his lips to his chin, the air seemed to crackle around them. The older man's broad grin was predatory, but Harry couldn't help but react in kind.

“Bloodbrothers,” Hannibal said with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “We can't help but tell each other secrets and keep them- quid pro quo.”

For a Muggle, the doctor was very open-minded, Harry thought as he finally washed his hands. The amount of blood was so little that it barely caused any discoloration when it mixed with the running water. Hannibal was standing next to him washing his hands and the relaxed atmosphere was not disturbed by the silence.

Harry glanced at the doctor, who stoically covered his face with a white cloth. A faint imprint remained on his face of the line he'd drawn with Harry's finger from just above his lips to his chin. The sight seemed to suit the doctor in an odd way as if this were the first secret he'd shared with Harry.

"So," Harry began uncertainly, searching for the right words. “This is what you do with all the unwilling patients? The quid pro quo ensures that everyone will eventually talk.”

Hannibal looked up from his saucepan into which he had poured the blood. He was just adding some salt when he began to speak. “I usually never work according to the quid pro quo concept. It would be very contradictory in my conversations with patients.”

Curious, Harry looked over Hannibal's shoulder, intrigued by the use of blood in cooking. In his short life he had seen a lot of blood, much of himself, but also of others. This was the first time that blood had been treated so serenely, without violent bloodshed.

"I understand," Harry finally murmured as he watched the blood slowly clot. “Your job is to make people talk.”

Hannibal looked down over his shoulder at Harry. “That's not how it works with friends, Harry. It is my sincere wish to get to know you better.”

Harry looked at him mockingly, his green eyes seeming to be much older than the boy's sixteen years. “Usually people want to know more than is good for them. Moreover, there must always be something in return.”

Hannibal took the saucepan of blood off the heat and set it aside, then took the onions and apples. With deft, quick movements, the onions were sauteed and set aside in a clean glass bowl. “I got an image of you, Harry, in our short conversations. This is an image I would like to share with you. If I am completely wrong, we will keep our conversations light and volatile- quid pro quo be damned.”

The cognac-colored eyes looked at Harry insistently, only the lack of incantation indicated that the man was not using 'Legimens' . He felt naked under the doctor's keen eye, but very safe at the same time. “If I can paint a good picture of you, I would like to continue our conversations more deeply.”

Harry nodded absently. "Let's hear it, doctor."

The doctor took the fatback and let it melt in a pan. He added some brown sugar and let it melt and mix in a controlled manner. “You are an orphan and you live unwillingly with your aunt and uncle. There is no love between you.”

Harry rolled his eyes, his posture suddenly stiff and agitated. “That's lazy psychology, Doctor. Shouldn't you start with my mother and how I put her on a pedestal?"

A scornful laugh was Hannibal's first reaction, to which he pinned Harry down with his rebuking gaze. "I had only just begun, Harry." He stirred the pan and added apples to the mixture. “I didn't want to start with your mother because you don't know her. You have some pictures and maybe some vague, well-intentioned stories from acquaintances and family, but you don't know her. No, you know her killer better.”

Harry felt the blood drain from his face and took a step back. “How do you know she was killed?”

“Deduction, Harry. You told me about a coward who was a traitor- what did you call him? A rat?” Hannibal bared his teeth in a cutting smile and looked at Harry with dangerously twinkling eyes. “A rat is an apt name for our sniffing, cheating half-pints who call themselves human. The way you talked about this man spoke volumes; it is therefore only a small step to distract from the fact that your godfather is only an ideal scapegoat for such an offense if the act is both perverse and very familial. The death of your parents, for example.”

The apples, meanwhile, were mixed with the fat mixture and slaked with calvados. Under other circumstances, Harry would have been very impressed by the doctor's perfect movements, but now he continued to stare distractedly at the man. “A man is only a traitor if he has passed on confidential knowledge to a third party, or in this case a human life. This tells me that your parents were a danger to a particular person or organization and therefore removed them from the equation.”

“That's very calculating and cold for a psychiatrist… like a- like a business transaction,” Harry said in a biting tone.

“Taking a life is separate from emotion, Harry. Believe me, for the murderer of your parents there were no feelings attached at all.”

"You're wrong," Harry muttered as he placed his trembling hands on the cool surface of the kitchen worktop. His heated, sticky skin was in stark contrast to the cold the stainless steel radiated, something he now welcomed. "He hates me."

“Ah, but did this feeling already exist when he decided to go after your parents?”

Harry looked intently at the man, his green eyes cooler than any of his were used to. "He. Was. There. For. Me.”

That made Hannibal's actions cease. Although the man had some interest in the skinny boy, this reaction was something he hadn't anticipated. "For you?"

It was as if a floodgate had opened in Harry, a huge dam that carefully contained all the emotions, but had now been broken by the doctor's words. Harry laughed bitterly, clapped his hands to his face, and ran his thin fingers through the tousled locks of his hair. “There was a prophecy. A bloody prophecy, can you believe that?! Some blabbering about a child born at a certain time, born to those who have defied him three times.”

There was a charged silence, Harry played with the hem of his shirt resignedly. “Bloody fanatic.”

Hannibal resumed his actions at the stove. He mixed the caramelized fatback with onion and apples with the clotted blood, resulting in a bizarre-looking pink mousse. His face was neutral with no outward indication of how he was feeling. “I have always hated misguided figures who equated themselves with God. Take Charles Manson," Hannibal sneered, washing his hands again, "with his 'Helter Skelter’. He was nothing more than a madman at the height of hippie culture who wanted to direct and accelerate an apocalyptic race war.”

He already had his sausage stuffer ready on the counter and motioned for Harry to come closer. “Harry, would you like to take the hog casing? It is soft enough and ready to be filled.”

Harry was pleased with the distraction and grabbed the pig's gut with firm hands. Luckily he didn't have to think about the mechanism for filling such a casing, because Hannibal immediately helped him attach it to the sausage stuffer.

“A fanatic like Charles Manson is often a powerful or powerful person who is completely misplaced in his views. His followers are often weak and feeble-minded, meek sheep who find it easy to follow someone. They often see perks in the ideology because it suits their pathetic lives, or because it immediately benefits them. A higher position in society.”

Harry snorted loudly, remembering the groveling figures of the Death Eaters kissing the hems of Voldemort's robes. He was sure that a powerful person like Malfoy would lick the soles of those filthy feet of the Dark Lord if demanded of him. “Pathetic.”

The corners of Hannibal's mouth curled up smugly. "Indeed. That is why you are much more powerful.”

Harry stared at him in surprise. "How so?"

“Obviously you have not bowed to this man. In fact, you are full of vengeance. You are not a tame sheep, you are a leader.”

***

If Harry had thought cooking with Hannibal was an experience, it only showed him how much he didn't know about the man yet. When the food was on the fire and the two men chatted, the doctor led him into the dining room. The walls were painted a dark green, and above a round table hung an intrigued web of antlers, the spotlights above them casting their shadows over the gleaming surface of the dining table.

Everything in the room spoke of luxury and benevolence. It almost felt hedonistic; the art on the wall, the carafes filled with red sparkling wine- not to mention the floral arrangement that graced the center of the table. The piece was a bizarre display of dark, rich colors: Harry saw velvety red orchids, but also green and purple cabbages, branches, bones, and figs, with purple roses in the middle. The young wizard realized that such a composition in his hands would look disjointed and sloppy, now it looked like something that wouldn't look out of place in a posh shop in Diagon Alley filled with stuff about the Dark Arts.

"Take a seat, Harry," Hannibal said softly, pushing a chair back to accommodate the young wizard. "The food won't be long in coming, we can start with our appetizer soon."

The charming doctor smiled a little apologetically. “I would offer various amuse-bouches for a more extensive dinner, perhaps combined with a light soup. Unfortunately, I have yet to find my way around the enormous variety that the butchers offer in the London area, so I opted for a simple salad. Although most English people are not very adventurous in their culinary palette, this country offers a huge variety of meat.”

“Too much supply?” Harry asked after a moment of silence.

Hannibal nodded, “Always choose quality over quantity, Harry. A lamb can bleat so defiantly, but that doesn't mean its kidneys taste good."

Chuckling, Harry raised a dark eyebrow. “Do you always choose the noisiest meat?”

“Only if it's particularly rude.”

Shaking his head, Harry chuckled, wondering what ferret meat would taste like- meat couldn't be ruder. The doctor had meanwhile gone to the kitchen to prepare the appetizer. Although Harry was beginning to appreciate the conversations with the doctor, he wasn't bored without him. From his chair, he had a good look at the dining room, especially the painting with a group of figures celebrating. If someone would ask him to describe the people on the canvas, the first thing that came to his mind was: nobility and power. The women were on the plump side, rounder than many of the girls he'd seen at Hogwarts. The men wore velvet robes with long-looking fur over their shoulders.

Harry didn't realize he'd stood up, staring at the painting. The centerpiece of the painting was a gorgeously beautiful woman, dressed in a gorgeous red dress that wouldn't look out of place in Griffindor Tower. His mouth dropped open when he saw that on the silver platter she was not offering a tasty snack, but a severed head. The morbid and gruesome image seemed to contradict the rest of the feast seen in the painting- contrary to the warmth this dining room radiated.

"Ah, I see you've found 'Herod's feast,' " Hannibal said suddenly behind Harry.

Startled, Harry looked over his shoulder, straight into the doctor's dark eyes. “Yeah… Yes, sir. My eye was drawn to it.”

Hannibal smiled contentedly and pointed his finger at the painting. “See that play of light, Harry? Your attention is immediately drawn to the creamy white skin of the woman in red. She is the center, she is the cause of the mayhem that took place. When you look at her, Harry, what do you see?”

"I see a spoiled girl," Harry muttered absently. He didn't know if his hunch was correct, but seeing the pompous curve of her lips, the self-assured, almost arrogant look in her eyes, Harry could only think that no one said ‘no’ to her. She was particularly pleased to display the severed head, enjoying the disgust she caused the man to whom she presented it. "She's sadistic and conceited, an empty shell."

"Many would have said she's a beautiful woman, a true femme fatal," Hannibal whispered in Harry's ear. “Some say that the danger in a woman is the most beautiful thing to perceive.”

"Her charms are lost on me," Harry said with a shrug.

"I prefer Moreau's painting to this version of Herod's feast," Hannibal said, at last, leading Harry to the table with a soft but compelling hand. “Although this work is beautiful, the Venetian school is clearly visible in the deep, warm colors that the painting is rich in, this work lacks the mystery and seduction that is visible in Moreau's work.”

“What's the difference between the two?” Harry asked as he sat down at the table.

“Influences from the east are visible in the costumes as well as in the buildings in the background. The Alhambra in Granada was the model for the painter, and one of the most impressive buildings I have ever visited. However, it is the bloody scene that impresses the most. Salomé is unapproachable, in the midst of her dance, at her feet are bloody flowers. The flowers are dripping with blood that pools around the delicate petals of the bouquet. Although the artwork shows something gruesome, it is beautiful in itself, almost radiant.”

Harry looked at the painting, the decapitated man's gray face visible on the silver platter. “The painting you describe almost seems to elevate death to something beautiful. I prefer this image; it shows death as it really is; cold and dull.”

“However, death can give meaning to the life that has been led,” Hannibal said as he filled the glasses with deep red wine. “Is it not the prospect of death that leads us to greatness?”

“Sometimes people fight for what's right, their deaths are nothing more than pure tragedy,” Harry said with a frown.

“Their death can be symbolic of battle, and isn't that true strength? Their deaths will strengthen the hearts of others, give more strength to their own lives lived.”

Defeated, Harry stared at the beautifully laid-out plate. In front of him was a plate filled with a beautiful salad, with meat that reminded Harry of mushrooms. The meat shone as it was thinly sliced on the greens of the salad. It couldn't tempt Harry though, the soothing scent of the entrance was lost in the thoughts in his head. “Sometimes, though, I wish death wouldn't take everything I touch,” Harry whispered.

"Perhaps you are like Herod in that respect, Harry," Hannibal said, looking straight at Harry. “He was put off by the wishes of Salomé and his wife. He had no choice but to go along with the whimsical wishes of the women; resulting in the death of John the Baptist. He didn't want this, he has swept along in the tide, in the current of the company. Perhaps…”

"What?" said Harry breathlessly.

“Perhaps you too are swept along by the current, by the whims of others. You say you don't want everything you touch to die, but you are surrounded by death, in your past, present and future.”

Resolutely, Harry looked at Hannibal, his green eyes twinkling with renewed vigor. “What are you saying, should I go against the grain? To just avoid everything? To live on a farm somewhere, away from everyone I love?”

“Sometimes it's unwise to go from the puddle to the pool, you never know how strong the current is elsewhere,” Hannibal said, smiling sardonically. “No, Harry, I'm not saying you have to swim against the current- this will just take energy. It is also unwise to avoid a conflict completely. It's much smarter to take your destiny into your own hands. Learn from your past and embrace it. Embrace death, and play with it. Decide who you touch, decide for yourself who takes death in its embrace.”

Harry frowned at the thought of deciding who would live and who would die. It seemed like an unreal concept to him- so far, all his experiences with the Death Eaters have been filled with chaos and a good dose of luck. Hannibal even seemed to suggest that you could target a victim very purposefully, as a kind of intimate appointment with death itself.

Absently, he pricked in the meat, which looked very inviting with its pearlescent sheen, and popped it into his mouth. He closed his eyes when tasting the food: it was very smooth in taste and perfectly balanced with the mustard seeds he felt explode in his mouth. “Hmm,” he moaned softly. “This tastes heavenly.” And it did. The light salad was the perfect starter as far as Harry was concerned. Although the banquets in the Great Hall were always lavish and rich in flavour, he preferred this dish. Harry could only hope the rest of the meal was as good as this one.

“Thank you, Harry. Such praise is always deserved when it comes from a fellow chef,” Hannibal said with a mischievous wink.

Harry's ears turned red, and he immediately used his hands to push the food back and forth on his plate with the cutlery- purely to have something to do. “I wouldn't call myself a chef- I do enjoy doing it though… Cooking, I mean.”

“I've seen your cutting technique, Harry,” Hannibal said after swallowing a morsel of food very civilized. “I have only seen such knife work in good sous chefs… or butchers.”

"I'm neither," said Harry, shaking his head, but secretly pleased with Hannibal's praise. "My...chemistry teacher would call my technique appalling and an insult to his profession."

Chuckling at his sentiments, Harry took a bite of his salad, his thoughts on Snape, and his many insults to Harry. Focusing on the food and his own thoughts, Harry missed Hannibal's sharp gaze and the irritation manifested by the narrowing of his lips.

“That professor of yours, does he have a name?”

Startled, Harry looked up from his plate and stared at Hannibal in surprise. “Snape, why?”

Hannibal shrugged elegantly, a move almost too petty for a man of his charisma and experience. It did, however, give Hannibal an innocent look, as if he had no further personal interest in the answer. “Of course, I can't give an objective assessment yet, but what you showed earlier in the kitchen was that you could work very precisely with a knife. Fast too, without losing your focus once. I would like to bring this to the attention of this… Professor Snape.”

A barking laugh proved irrepressible in the young wizard. His fingers trembling with laughter, he set his cheap glasses on the table and wiped away some tears. “My apologies, Hannibal. My laugh was not directed at you, nor was it intended to be offensive. Snape is… a complicated man, with an even more complicated relationship with me.”

As Hannibal looked at him inquiringly, with a teasing eyebrow raised, Harry realized what he seemed to be implying. “By relationship, I mean a professional student-teacher relationship.”

"Of course, I didn't expect anything else," Hannibal said measuredly.

An uneasy feeling crept over Harry. He got the impression that he had offended the doctor with his laugh. Although this was not his intention, he couldn't shake the guilt. “Hannibal,” Harry said in a clear voice, “Professor Snape used to go to school with my father and godfather, they were in the same school year. I understand from multiple sources that their relationship was antagonistic. One would even go so far as to say that my father and godfather deliberately tormented and harassed him. Although I never knew my father and my godfather for only a few years, Professor Snape has conveyed to me the feelings he has for them. He hates me- I'm aware of that. The feeling is mutual.”

“It is unprofessional for a teacher to let their personal opinion influence a student's treatment and assessment,” Hannibal said firmly.

Harry just rolled his eyes and smiled broadly. “I would never accuse Professor Snape of being impartial, in fact, I would rather argue the opposite.”

“Is this man on your list, then?”

“Which list?”

“The list the rat is on.”

Harry thought back to the first conversation he'd had with Hannibal. Just like today, he had revealed more about himself than he had intended. He'd even gone so far as to share an imaginary list of all the people he thought would drop dead. The list didn't exist, though, just in his head- it wasn't as though Harry wanted to act on it.

“No, he's not on that list,” Harry said with a smile. He took a sip of his wine and enjoyed the way the drink warmed his belly. “Although the man is unpleasant, he has never done anything to me. Rather the opposite.”

Harry looked curiously at Hannibal, who slowly ate the last remnants of the salad. The man seemed to strive for perfection in everything he did- so why the man had insisted on dining with Harry was a big question to him. “Do you have a list?”

Surprised, but not displeased, Hannibal looked at Harry. The dangerous flicker in his eyes was visible again for a moment. “No, I don't have a list. Indeed, a list would suggest that I would like to remember such people and carry them with me like nail fungus that continues to proliferate. I give every person a chance to make a good impression, this can of course be achieved through good behavior, but this can also be done by apologizing where necessary. If one fails, I feel compelled to act.”

"How?" Harry asked at once, interested in the older man's answer.

“It depends on the moment, on the offense. However, if I wanted to remember a person I would place them in a Rolodex,” Hannibal said with a straight face.

Hannibal's answer puzzled Harry. The system seemed very arbitrary to him- such a device was usually sorted by name. How could Hannibal ever discriminate between people- in fact, why should he discriminate? Hannibal, however, seemed to be able to read Harry's mind, for the doctor answered as if Harry were an open book.

“I don't want to meet a contractor who is continuously late on the job. I don't want a driver with alcoholic tendencies behind the wheel. It's a system that I can use easily and quickly for when I need it.”

“Your list sounds a lot more normal than mine,” Harry commented.

Grinning broadly, Hannibal rose to pick up their plates in one fluid motion. “Normal is an illusion. Take Salomé-” said Hannibal, gesturing at the painting with his head. “What is normal for her, is chaos for Herod.”

“And death for another.”

Dark eyes found intense green. "Indeed."

Chapter Text

Harry noted that the boudin noir was surprisingly delicious. The spicy flavor with cloves, thyme, and marjoram was something Harry had not eaten before, but the doctor had managed to create it without effort. The salty but complex flavors were perfectly balanced with the crispy potatoes- which Harry absolutely could not call chips - and the confit red cabbage, making the skinny boy struggle not to wolf down the dish in an almost beastly manner.

The main course was eaten with as much gusto as the starter, and even the conversation was as smooth as the wine that Hannibal had served. The doctor showed an astonishing amount of restraint and self-control during the conversations with the boy. Harry could feel and see in the little flashes in the warm cognac-colored eyes that Hannibal wanted to know more about him, but let the conversation flow over safe topics such as the perception of art and music. When Harry looked around halfway through his main course- the speed with which he had devoured half the dish was alarming- the darkness around them felt warm and intimate. The large dining room was dimly lit, shadows flickering against the intricate tapestries that lined the stone walls. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a warm but ominous glow across the table, the lavish centerpiece a rich shadow. Harry sat silently, his hands folded in front of him, his gaze absent. Though the conversation flowed smoothly from topic to topic- Hannibal’s skill, no doubt- the warmth of the room and the meal caused him to become almost melancholic and lost in thought.

Hannibal sat elegantly, a slight smile on his lips, his eyes watching Harry with great interest. The air was thick with unspoken tension, but strangely inviting.

“You seem lost in thought, Harry,” Hannibal said, his voice smooth and controlled. “Death often makes us wander the corridors of our own minds.” 

Surprised, the green eyes flickered upwards and seemed to find the cognac-colored ones flawlessly. Harry was certain that Doctor Lecter was a muggle, Legilimency was out of the question. Perhaps he wore his grief and especially his guilt clearly visible on his face and his feelings were easy to read. However, the older man's penetrating eyes made him want to share his secrets. That these secrets would be cherished.

Harry nodded and managed a faint smile. "It's just... hard. Sirius was more than a godfather; he was family and for a long time my only way out. I keep thinking about what he would have said, or what he would have done... What would he think of me?"

Hannibal tilted his head, a flash of understanding flashing across his face. "Loss is a delicate ingredient- sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet, depending on the way it is prepared." He gestured gracefully toward the half-consumed dish: Boudin Noir, a rich, dark black pudding that seemed to reflect the shadows in the room.

As they ate, Hannibal watched Harry intently, the silence stretching comfortably between bites.

"You know," Hannibal began in a low voice, "I once found myself in a similar state- questioning, searching for meaning amid chaos. An old acquaintance of mine used to say that sometimes the most exquisite flavors come from the most unexpected sources." He paused, a subtle smile curling his lips. "He was describing a dish, but I believe he was talking about life itself." 

Harry looked up, intrigued. "What happened to him?"

Hannibal's eyes glittered with a hint of nostalgia. "He disappeared one winter's night, leaving behind only the faint scent of spice and darkness. Some say he became something else entirely- something beyond the reach of the ordinary senses." 

Harry chuckled softly, a wry smile playing on his lips. "It sounds like he's become a legend, or maybe a monster."

"Maybe," Hannibal muttered. "Or maybe he's just embraced his true nature."

The conversation drifted seamlessly into darker waters as Hannibal leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You see, I've come to appreciate the finer aspects of transformation. The art of turning the mundane into the sublime- sometimes that requires a touch of... courage." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "In the past, I've taken certain... liberties with ingredients, so to speak. Like a gardener pruning his roses. Sometimes you have to cut away the most beautiful flowering branches, causing the bush to blossom further, elevated into something better."

Harry raised an eyebrow, sensing the veiled reference. "So you're saying you've... changed?"

Hannibal's smile widened. "Change is the only constant– an evolution from one form to another. Sometimes, to truly understand yourself, you have to shed your old skin, even if it's a little... bloody."

Harry's eyes flashed with a mixture of amusement and discomfort. "Well, I've always been good at adapting, something I learned at a young age. I once joked that if I ever got hungry enough, I'd consider trying a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Bean- especially the rotten ones."

Harry found Hannibal's eyes again, startled, his slip of the tongue to the Muggle palpable to the teen. "It's a kind of candy, with all sorts of flavours. The headmaster of the school I go to once told me he had one that tasted like vomit..." Harry snickered, "Not my cup of tea."

Hannibal chuckled softly. "An admirable sense of humor. Yet humor often conceals deeper desires- desires we dare not admit, even to ourselves."

With a quick but elegant movement, the doctor pushed back his chair and efficiently picked up the now-empty plates. Harry, accustomed to working for every morsel of food at the Dursleys, picked up the glasses that had held the wine. He silently followed Hannibal back into the kitchen, where he and the man rinsed their plates and put them in the dishwasher. The crystal wine glasses were left on the countertop to be washed by hand later.

With an exaggerated flaunting movement, Hannibal opened the refrigerator. "We shall end this evening as the Askeri of the Ottoman Empire. These were the military, clergy, but in our case: the nobility."

Harry snorted loudly, a rather suppressed laugh, his eyes dancing with pleasure. He gestured to his shabby robes, "I am most certainly not noble."

With long strides, Hannibal placed the dessert on the cold countertop in one fluid motion, then used his body to enclose the smaller boy. With a long finger under Harry’s chin, he pushed his head up until each other’s eyes found them again. “I recognize that in the most basic sense of the word, we speak of people of privilege with hereditary titles. However…” He paused and gripped the boy’s chin firmly, “I appreciate the broader interpretation of the word, namely that nobility is determined by the quality of elevation of mind and character. Or especially their behavior. For rudeness is a poor imitation of strength. It is what can elevate men to nobility or render them into pigs.”

As quickly as Hannibal had grabbed Harry, he let go and picked up an oddly stacked teapot. As he took the tea leaves and placed them in the odd teapot, he began to explain. “The top pot is where the tea leaves are steeped, while the lower pot is where the water is boiled. The hot water simultaneously keeps the tea warm and gives it its distinct, strong flavor. This continuous brewing and heating process is what makes for such unique tea.” He looked up from his actions and grinned briefly, “I was wondering whether to serve Turkish coffee or tea, but I suspected that you, as a healthy English boy, would feel more comfortable with tea.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders but continued to stare at the brew with fascination. “Can I help you with anything?”

Hannibal looked at him in pleasant surprise and gestured to the dish with a kind of white pudding. “Help me make two nice portions of this. I prefer to serve some red fruit with this, perhaps some slices of banana.”

Humming softly, Harry got to work. The white pudding smelled decadent, sweet with hints of cinnamon. It reminded him of the mascarpone in the tiramisu that his aunt sometimes makes. He tried to plate the dishes as beautifully as the previous courses Hannibal had served, but quickly acknowledged the older man as his superior. While the dishes were certainly not sloppy or ugly, they lacked Hannibal’s elegance. The older man seemed to read his train of thought and added a blood-red and dark purple primrose to the mix. “There you have it, a perfect blend of portion size, taste, and elegance.” He picked up a tray with a strange teapot and tulip-shaped tea glasses on it. 

“Please take our desserts, darling boy, they are your creations after all.” Harry felt his ears grow warm and knew his cheeks were now flushed as well. Where he had always hated being called ‘boy’- even when his grandfather figure Dumbledore said it- the term now brought him a strange sense of affection.

Once seated at the table, the two fell into a comfortable silence. Hannibal was the perfect host, serving a gaffer's cup of tea, but with a taste that Harry wished would be served at Hogwarts. The white pudding, called Tavuk Gogsu, had a peculiar texture. So peculiar, that Harry made a heedful remark about it.

Hannibal didn’t even look up from his dessert and said, “That’s because the pudding also contains finely chopped chicken breast.”

Harry studied the dish with renewed eyes and took another large bite. He groaned softly as the rich flavors of the pudding melded together perfectly like those of the fruit. “Not the strangest thing I’ve eaten.”

The boy’s reaction made Hannibal’s eyes flicker with a muted fire, like glowing coals radiating heat. It made him look at his hands in pain for a moment before returning his gaze to Harry. "Tell me, Harry, have you ever met someone who seemed to hide their true nature behind a mask of innocence?"

Harry hesitated for a moment, then replied wryly, "Always. But I guess that's just part of growing up- learning to see past the masks."

Hannibal nodded, then leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "And what about the obscured masks? The ones that hide forbidden desires… the things we have to repress?"

Harry's face grew more serious. "You mean, like the things we're told are wrong?"

"Exactly," Hannibal replied smoothly. "Sometimes the line between good and evil blurs in the heat of our passions. I've learned that the most exquisite experiences often lie just outside them." He paused, then added softly, "Tell me, Harry, do you know how to tell when someone has truly lost their dark side? Or maybe- are you-" he paused deliberately, "-the type to venture into forbidden territory?"

Harry looked at him, a challenging glint in his eyes. His nights exploring the castle under his invisibility cloak, searching for secrets and other intriguing finds. "I've learned that sometimes the only way to truly understand someone is to walk with them into the shadows."

Hannibal's smile was slow and knowing. "And have you ever thought about what it would be like to surrender yourself completely to those shadows? To let go of hesitation and taste liberation in its purest form?"

Harry replied with a sharp wit, "Well, I've always believed that if you're going to indulge your dark side, you'd better do it with style- and maybe a little magic."

Hannibal chuckled softly. "Indeed. But beware, sometimes the most enchanting temptations hide the greatest danger."

A moment of silence fell between them, full of unspoken truths.

Hannibal's gaze sharpened. "Tell me, Harry- have you ever wondered what loyalty is? The kind that binds us to our choices, our past?"

Harry looked away and spoke more softly. "Loyalty is a tricky thing. Sometimes it's what keeps us human..." Sirius's face appeared in Harry's mind, right at the moment he wanted to kill Pettigrew, in revenge for the murder of his best friend. Followed by the realization that his godfather had left his godson behind to exact the same revenge- to Bellatrix's smiling face as she looked up at Harry scornfully from the Ministry floor... "Other times, it's what makes us monsters."

Hannibal nodded knowingly. "And which are you, Harry? A hero bound by loyalty, or something darker waiting to ignite."

Harry caught his gaze and thought of his failed attempt to torture Bellatrix. A smirk curled his lips. "Depends on the night... and the company."

Hannibal leaned back, a satisfied expression. "Good. Because sometimes the most compelling stories are written in the shadows."

Chapter Text

The summer sun was beginning to set, casting a hazy golden glow over the historic streets of Westminster. Harry had had to use his deer-like eyes to persuade Hannibal to drop him off at Charing Cross Underground station after dinner, so he could take the train back to his aunt and uncle. Hannibal didn’t want to do it; he wanted to scout the grounds, but he knew it would be a small victory for the boy. He would drive to the boy’s residence later to investigate Petunia’s claims.

Harry walked beside Hannibal, each step echoing softly against the cobblestones. The air was thick and humid, the kind that clings to the skin and makes every breath feel weighted. It felt stifling with the smell of bygone rain and the distant hum of London life. The ancient stones of the city seemed to breathe beneath their feet, whispering secrets that only the shadows truly understood.

Hannibal’s sharp eyes darted from the ornate facades to the alleys, where faint traces of old, dark histories hovered like ghosts. His voice broke the silence, soft yet thick with intrigue.

“This city,” Hannibal mused, “has seen centuries of power, faith, and secrets- many of them buried beneath layers of stone and stories. Did you know that Westminster Abbey has done more than just worship? Beneath its floors lie tunnels- some sealed, some forgotten. Rumors tell of clandestine rituals, hidden chambers where the curious and the dangerous have met in silence.”

Harry looked at him sharply, a hint of skepticism in his eyes. "You're joking."

Hannibal smiled faintly, almost wistfully. "I never joke about the shadows of history, Harry." His tone was light, but the words carried weight. "Sometimes what's buried is more revealing than what's on display." He paused, then whispered to Harry with a sullen raised eyebrow, "Most of the spaces were sealed off over a hundred years ago, though... In the case of the tunnel under the Palace of Westminster, it was sealed by someone called Tom Porter, who was very fond of Ould Ale." 

Harry chuckled, shaking his head at the older man's amused tone. Hannibal was a walking encyclopedia, full of facts about the area, but he wasn't too posh to amuse Harry with jokes. "Tsk, tsk, Hannibal, you know I'm underage... I don't know if it's responsible to talk about a fondness for old ale." 

The older man’s eyes gleamed, and an almost mischievous smile curled his lips. For a moment, Harry caught sight of the man’s pointed teeth, which gave him a dangerous air for a second. “My, my, Harry,” he began in a drawling voice, “are you accusing me of corruption?” he shot back, a teasing undertone to his voice.

Harry laughed out loud, his green eyes shining with outright mischief. “And here I thought you were keeping it civil and upscale with your expensive wine during our dinner. We’re only minutes away, and you’re spouting poetry about men who liked old ale.”

Hannibal leaned forward slightly, a mischievous glint flickering in his eyes as he studied Harry’s flushed cheeks.“You’re quite perceptive, Harry,” he muttered softly. “I believe you’re accusing me of encouraging your drinking habits- despite your age, no less.” 

Harry frowned, a mixture of amusement and resentment. Hannibal chuckled, his tone soft and gentle. "Ah, but you know, although I used to serve wine at our dinner, and now according to you I'm spouting poems about old ale… you're poking me with the proverbial stick until I unleash my claws- perhaps I've come to influence you more than you realize."

Harry's eyes narrowed, and he shot Hannibal a look of mock indignation. "And what if I said you could write poetry about blood next?” Hannibal's smile deepened, his tone darkened just enough to make Harry hesitate. "I certainly could. Blood- the rhythm, the color- has a beauty all its own. Perhaps you'll discover that someday, Harry, in your own way."

Harry stiffened for a moment as Hannibal spoke of blood almost reverently and clutched his forearm where there was still a thick scar from where Pettigrew had drawn blood. “Blood is the one thing I don’t joke about,” he began in a whisper, but still audible. “It can protect you, but it can also certainly create new danger.”

Hannibal nodded, briefly placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, and squeezed gently. “I can appreciate that sentiment, Harry. As a doctor, I learned the value of blood from the beginning, something I haven’t forgotten after all these years. And I’m sorry if I came across as insensitive. Although we haven’t known each other long, I value our conversations. It feels like moments like this that we see each other for who we are, not for what we show to the outside world.”

Harry gave a stiff, uncertain smile, but accepted the doctor's apology. After all, it was a relaxed conversation, in which Harry was certainly pulling on Hannibal's pigtails to get a response. He just never expected to receive a sensual monologue about blood. “You don’t make me uncomfortable,” he said in a sulky tone before puffing out his chest, “I’m a lion.”

Hannibal grinned widely and gestured for Harry to continue on their way. “I would have guessed you were a badger before.” 

He let out a loud laugh at the sight of Harry's indignant face and his protests. He held up both hands in apology, but continued to grin broadly at the younger boy. “The badger is a nocturnal animal that leaves the safety of the sett at dusk and goes in search of food alone. It is an omnivore that seeks out its food very opportunistically and eats whatever it finds ‘in front of its nose’. Very territorial. They are not dangerous and will never attack on their own, but will bite back vigorously if there is any unwanted intimacy.”

The explanation fell upon deaf ears, and Harry pouted at the comparison. “I’m not a cuddly, peace-loving, and unexpectedly back-stabbing badger,” he grumbled softly, his hands firmly shoved in his jeans pockets. “But I suppose it’s better than a snake.”

Harry, meanwhile, was wide-eyed. Although he lived near London himself, he had never explored the city on foot. In fact, he was usually only taken to the Leaky Cauldron, and otherwise only saw parts of the city as he drove past. The buildings were simply imposing. Parliament Street was busy, with multiple lanes for traffic to move through. Harry saw the characteristic red double-decker buses driving around even at this late hour. They were lucky, he mused, that it stayed light so long in the summer; now he could enjoy the beautiful surroundings for a long time. He chuckled slightly as he passed a pub on his right called 'the Red Lion' and briefly wondered if an old Gryffindor owned this establishment. 

They passed through the wrought-iron gates of Downing Street, where a police cordon stretched across the street, cordoning off an area that seemed almost absurdly theatrical for a crime scene. Uniformed officers moved like ghosts among the assembled crowd, their professional masks masking their shock.

Hannibal's gaze sharpened as he saw a figure lying on the ground- a woman, motionless, but with an undeniable grace, even in death. Her emerald scarf still hung around her neck, the fabric contrasting brightly against her pale skin.

"How tragic," Hannibal muttered under his breath as he moved closer. His eyes studied her, cataloging every detail with clinical fascination. "The elegance of her bearing suggests she was someone of distinction—perhaps someone who knew secrets worth killing for."

Harry hesitated, instinctively feeling a pang of fear. The woman's face, so serene and regal, haunted him. His voice was soft, trembling with emotion. "I know her…" he whispered, recognition beginning to dawn. "She was one of my protectors. Emmeline Vance."

Hannibal's gaze flashed with interest, but he maintained his calm veneer. "A loss of such refinement. You say protector, protection from what, Harry?"

Harry clenched his fists. His heart pounded in his throat. "My parents' murderer is still out to kill me," he said softly. For the first time since the beginning of summer, the wizarding world felt ominously close. It was as if someone had tightened a noose around his neck, cutting off the air from his throat.

“Your aunt never spoke of any security,” Hannibal began quietly, placing two fingers on his pulse point, which was palpable on Harry’s neck. “You are safe here among these law enforcement officers.” When Harry did not respond but seemed to zoom in on the body that was now covered in a white cloth, Hannibal’s fingers slid around his neck and squeezed firmly, but not painfully. “Harry!” he hissed urgently, “You are safe with me. Feel the strength in my hand, know that I can protect you. Do not feel the threat, but feel the warmth and the security.”

Although the action was unorthodox, Harry responded well, and a fierce fire appeared in his eyes. “Someone did this to her,” he said fiercely. "It was Bellatrix. I know. She's the only one who would be ruthless enough."

Hannibal's gaze lingered on the scene, then turned back to Harry, tilting his head with a knowing smile. "Bellatrix Lestrange- a name that whispers chaos. I saw her image in the paper recently, she was associated with Sirius Black… Your Sirius, Harry?"

The officers motioned the crowd back and began setting up white tents that blocked the view of the crime scene. Before Harry and Hannibal could walk away, however, a detective approached with a clipboard in his hand. His face was stern but curious as he surveyed the visitors.

"We're conducting a formal investigation," the officer said, looking at Hannibal and Harry. "Can you tell us where you were before?"

Hannibal's voice was silky, confident, and convincing. “I am Dr. Hannibal Lecter, a psychiatrist, and I consult as a forensic psychologist. Me and my companion just walked in - ghastly business.”

Ignoring Hannibal's comment, the man looked up from his note, "And your name is?"

Harry's eyes widened, and he tried to peek at the notes by standing on his toes. "Harry. Harry Potter."

The detective puffed and wrote down the name. Hannibal inconspicuously pushed Harry down, causing the boy to stand flat on his feet again. “I’ve been doing this job for years now, but I’ve rarely seen so much destruction in a body. No blood, but I wouldn’t be surprised if all her fingers were broken. Not to mention the rest of her body.” The detective paused and narrowed his eyes. “Although I have not often encountered such a crime, I can read people like the best of them. That’s my job.”

For a moment, Harry's eyes flicked to Hannibal's, silently seeking support. The officer, however, continued his story when Harry said nothing. “I saw recognition, Mr. Potter. Can you explain that to me?”

Harry nodded. “I-I knew her,” he started slowly, “well- not really, but I've seen her before.”

“Where was this?” the officer asked without looking up from his clipboard full of notes. “At my house,” Harry said without thinking, “er, that is, she took me to a friend’s house to spend the summer there.”

“And you went with her, without knowing her?” the man now said in an uncomprehending tone, looking at Harry with searching eyes.

“No!” Harry said quickly. "Well yes- yes, I did go with her, but that was because she wasn't alone. She was with several people I knew. I'm not an idiot."

The detective seemed to question that statement with a facial expression that would make Professor Snape proud. “And who were those persons?”

Here, Harry hesitated for a moment before he answered. "De-Dedalus Diggle, sir," he started hesitantly. “And also Moody and Remus Lupin…”

“Ah,” was the detective's deadpan response. “And do you have addresses for these people?”

“Err, no, sir,” Harry answered calmly.

“Phone number?”

“No.”

“A place where we might find them?”

“Well, no.”

“Not even from Mr. ‘Wolf-Wolf’?”

“Wolf-Wolf, sir?” Harry asked, bewildered.

“Remus Lupin, obviously the result of a night of beer drinking, or a prank by a student,” the detective said, visibly pleased with his deduction. "I'm not stupid, Mr. Potter. They are clearly made-up names. Besides, you can't add anything to their names. Who do you think you are?" the officer snapped, now visibly agitated.

Harry felt Hannibal’s protective hand on his shoulder, straightened his shoulder, and then said clearly, “I’m Harry Potter, and I’m not a liar!”

“Pfft, perhaps a wild imagination,” the officer muttered as he wrote down Harry’s answers. The detective’s eyes narrowed as he turned to Hannibal, his voice short and dismissive. “And you, sir? What’s your connection to Harry here?” He flipped back a moment, “Mr. Lecter, you say? You seem too involved to be a mere bystander.”

Hannibal’s calm, measured smile remained intact, though a hint of irritation crossed his face. “I’m a friend of Harry’s,” he replied calmly, “and I’m here to assist him, if need be. It’s always best to have someone who understands the complexities of the mind.”

The detective scoffed and eyed Harry suspiciously. “Friend or not, I don’t see any official address or credentials yet. Do you even have a license to ‘help’ him?”

Hannibal’s eyes flashed with quiet amusement. "My credentials are irrelevant here, Detective. I prefer to think of myself as a bystander and occasional advisor--although I am happy to help when my expertise is deemed useful."

The detective's tone turned condescending. "Well, I have no need for a fancy talker who throws around titles. Just stay out of our way, Doctor--or whatever you call yourself."

Hannibal's voice turned soft but sharp. "Doctor, as you so rudely refuse to acknowledge, is a title you have earned through years of study- something you might want to consider before dismissing the qualifications of others. Perhaps if you focused less on arrogance and more on understanding, the matter would be clearer."

The detective's face twisted in irritation, but Hannibal's calm, unwavering gaze left him speechless for a moment. "Shall we now move on to professionalism?" Hannibal added softly, "Or should I remind you that a true expert knows when to listen--and when to speak?"

Harry's patience was breaking. He was angry because of the treatment of his person, but also because of the condescending tone that the officer took towards his Hannibal. The man had not hesitated to stand up for him, to help him with the proverbial attacks of the man. The detective reminded him of Umbridge - on the surface a decent person, but beneath the cloying veneer, or in the detective's case, the bitter hint of coffee, there was only condescension and unreason. His voice was trembling but determined. "Emmeline is dead because of Bellatrix Lestrange," he said, his voice rising in anger. He pointed towards the white tent. "She has a name! The woman lying there broken on the ground, a fact that will haunt me for a long time, has a name. Her name is Emmeline Vance, and she was a brave woman." 

The detective’s venomous gaze slid from Hannibal to Harry. “Bellatrix Lestrange, you say? Soon, you’ll be telling me her deranged cousin was there to help her through the torture. What was his name again?” the officer said mockingly. “I remember, Sirius Black!”

In a fit of ultimate rage, Harry tried to leap past Hannibal to attack the man. Although Harry’s seeker abilities made him faster than most, the older man was remarkably agile and graceful as a panther. “Harry,” Hannibal said softly in his ear. “Pick your battles.”

Harry managed to calm himself down a bit before snapping, "Sirius was innocent. He was my godfather, a good man. And she's the one responsible."

The words were out before Harry could stop them, his grief and anger bubbling over. His fists clenched, his eyes blazing. The police officers exchanged uneasy glances.

Hannibal placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, a gentle but commanding gesture. "Harry, I understand your pain. But sometimes the truth is a fragile thing - easily shattered or twisted. We have to be careful what we believe."

Harry looked away, fighting back tears. "I know Sirius is dead. I saw him die. I saw Bellatrix kill him."

The detective looked at him with a mixture of sympathy and suspicion. "We're here to find out who did this. But you seem so sure about Bellatrix Lestrange."

Hannibal's tone was calm, almost hypnotic. “Certainty can be dangerous, but in your case, it is rooted in experience. Yet insight into the mind behind such actions can provide clues- clues that can lead you to justice.” His gaze was piercing. "I have helped to draw up psychological profiles of American murderers- I have understood their motives, their whispers, their shadows. If I may, I would like to help."

Harry's voice trembled, frustration rising. "Help? Do you think you can help after what happened? Bellatrix is ​​a monster, and Sirius was more of a moral compass than anyone I know. He would never do anything bad."

Hannibal's smile was serene, but with a darker undercurrent. "People are not always what they seem. Sometimes the greatest monsters are those who hide behind masks of righteousness."

Harry's voice grew louder, a mixture of sadness and anger. "You don't understand. Sirius was a good man. More honest than anyone here. He faced death without fear- more courage than I ever had."

The officers came closer, sensing the storm brewing. The inspector held up a hand to signify silence.

"We must take you both in for questioning," the inspector said in a determined voice. "However, this is not necessary today, but it remains important to get more information from Ms. Vance. But we will also consider your insights, Dr. Lecter." The man looked sour as he acknowledged Hannibal's title as an expert, and Harry could have sworn he saw his eyes twinkle with triumph.

Hannibal politely bowed his head. "Thank you. Sometimes the darkest truths need a gentle touch to surface." He looked at Harry, who was now visibly shaking and in danger of crying. "Harry, I think you should go home now. Rest. Your mind needs room to breathe."

Harry hesitated, then nodded, his eyes welling with tears. As the officers gently led him away, offering him a cup of water, Hannibal watched in silence, a faint smile on his lips. He felt a strange thrill- a chance to watch the boy’s decomposition, to see how far his darkness could be coaxed from its hiding place.

Once Harry was out of sight, Hannibal turned back to the crime scene, his eyes focused on the tent that obscured his view of the corpse. The police still had the area cordoned off, but Hannibal’s mind was already weaving a new tapestry of thoughts—one that wove together pain, darkness, and the whispering shadows of Westminster’s history.

"People like them," he muttered to himself, "are often the catalysts of chaos. Understanding the roots of such violence – and perhaps even its influence – could be the key to unlocking a deeper truth."

He stepped back and smoothed his coat with measured grace. The city buzzed around him, unaware that beneath the stones the darkness simmered, waiting for a new awakening.

---

The scene is set: a body, a city of secrets, and a boy whose fragile darkness flickers like a candle in the wind. Such moments are rich with possibility. The boy’s raw emotion, his uncontrolled pain—all of it is fertile ground for understanding, for planting seeds that can grow into something…more interesting.

Harry’s anger is palpable, an explosive mix of grief and righteous rage. It’s dangerous, but also revealing. When a young mind like his is pushed to its limits, the true darkness begins to whisper. I see it lurking underneath- fear, hatred, a desperate need for justice. All of it I can gently direct, or at least observe.

He believes his godfather is dead, and his grief is genuine—but I wonder how much of it is tied up in his burgeoning understanding of morality, of loyalty. Such raw emotion, left unexamined, can be an unstable foundation. It’s a shame that he’s so quick to blame others- Bellatrix, Sirius, anyone but himself. But that’s human nature. We cling to our certainties, especially in times of chaos.

The woman - Emmeline Vance - her silent, statuesque face haunts him. Her death is a reminder: power, beauty, status- all are vulnerable. The shadows of Westminster whisper truths that most ignore. Her death is not arbitrary; it is a message, an initiation into the darkness that undergirds this city. And perhaps a sign that the game has begun again.

I observe the police, the officers- unwitting pawns in a bigger game. Their efforts are but superficial ripples. What they fail to see is the underlying pattern, the deeper currents that move beneath the chaos. That’s where I come in. My knowledge of criminal psychology, my insights- these are tools. Tools I can wield with precision.

Harry’s emotional outburst- his declaration that Sirius was more moral than anyone here- reveals an essential truth. His moral compass is unwavering, but naive. That naivety makes him vulnerable, but also fascinating. He is a diamond in the rough, unblemished, still unformed by the darkness of the world. But that can change.

I wonder- how far can I push him? How much darkness can be coaxed from the cinder? His pain is real, but his mind is still unguarded. That is a gift- one I want to explore, to understand. I have helped shape minds before, twisted their perceptions, and revealed the depths of their souls. Harry’s potential is undeniable.

And yet I must proceed with caution. He is dangerous- more dangerous than he realizes. His power lies in his conviction, his morality. But morality can be a cage, a barrier that keeps the darkness at bay. What remains once that barrier is cracked? That is the real question.

My role here is not just to observe, but to subtly influence. To guide him to the understanding that darkness is not merely evil, but an aspect of the self that must be acknowledged- integrated, even celebrated. Only then can true power be wielded.

The police, the officers- they are mere spectators. Their understanding of the mind is superficial. I possess a deeper insight- an understanding of the human condition that few can comprehend. I can shape perceptions, manipulate outcomes, if I so choose. But for now, be patient. Let the boy's storm run its course.

Ultimately, all of this- the death, the chaos, the grief- serves as raw material. Raw material from which I can mold understanding, influence, and perhaps even a new creature of my design. Harry's darkness is a seed, and I see the potential to grow into something formidable.

Soon I will strike. Not with force, but with words- subtle, precise. The game has begun, and I am already several steps ahead.

---

As Harry was led away, lost in his grief, Hannibal lingered for a moment. His eyes traced the outline of the white tent at the crime scene, then scanned the crowd with calm detachment. The shadows of Westminster seemed to draw nearer, eager to listen.

‘Time to sow the first seeds,’ Hannibal thought, a faint smile on his lips. ‘He is fragile, yet malleable – like clay waiting to be shaped.’

He walked up to the detective and spoke softly. "May I have a moment? I think I can help you understand the killer's mind."

The officer hesitated but nodded. The initial checks on Dr. Lecter's name were encouraging; not only had the man been a leading surgeon, but he was now a highly regarded psychologist. The detective had made good use of the few minutes he had to vet the man and had already learned from various sources that Dr. Lecter had previously spoken the truth. Although Scotland Yard usually worked with consultants, it was not as if they just walked in. However, he also believed in not being too critical of things that were given to you, and it seemed very likely that Dr. Lecter - smug as he was - was. After all, the detective could use any help he could get, he could already see the newspaper headlines: ‘Breakdown of law and order in the Prime Minister’s backyard’.

"Thank you," said Hannibal, turning to the assembled officers. "Sometimes the mind reveals its secrets in subtle ways. I have studied many cases - complex, multi-layered, hidden beneath the surface. What I offer is insight, not just theory."

He paused and looked at the scene, which he was finally allowed to see in its full regalia. It was immediately clear that the detective had not lied; the woman's hands were strangely twisted as if she had stretched her fingers in ultimate pain. From what he could see, there were no bruises around the joints of the fingers, they seemed almost magically twisted into their impossible position. Albeit the woman looked stately, her expression was one of mortal fear. Although her legs were hidden by a long skirt, Hannibal could see from the position of the body that these too had been mangled. It would not surprise him that here, too, there were no superficial bruises to be seen.

After this inspection, which was not intimate enough, he turned to the crowd. "This woman - her death is not a random act. It is a message, a reflection of the chaos that has been brewing beneath the surface of this city for decades."

The police listened, intrigued.

"The murderer," Hannibal continued softly, "is someone who sees himself as justified- someone who believes that his actions serve a higher purpose. That is the most dangerous form of darkness."

He looked the detective straight in the eye. "To understand them, we have to understand their worldview-their warped moral sense, their justification for violence. This wouldn't be the first time they've killed, this was clinical- detached."

The detective nodded slowly and took notes. A younger officer looked at the body in amazement and horror and said, "How can this be clinical?! This woman suffered at the hands of her killer."

Hannibal nodded enigmatically, enjoying the moment behind his mask. "You don't see any signs of excessive violence either. I don't deny that this woman suffered horribly, but I don't see any bruises on her face either. Her attacker didn't hit her, belittle her, or humiliate her. Even in death, Ms. Vance is stately and graceful. This tells me that the killer was motivated by something other than a personal grudge."

He made eye contact with the detective who had interviewed him earlier. “I expect there will be another case like this. This could be a man or a woman; it doesn’t matter to the perpetrator, but the injuries will be similar. I also think it would be good to look at certain groups that currently have a foothold in London or, even larger, the United Kingdom.”

Hannibal’s eyes darted back to the crowd, where a young officer was nervously watching Harry. 'Now, a delicate moment.'

He approached the officer with a gentle, reassuring tone. “May I speak to the young man for a moment?”

The officer hesitated for a moment, then let Hannibal come closer.

Harry looked up, his eyes red and slightly trembling as he stared at Hannibal. The psychiatrist’s expression was calm and sympathetic, but beneath that veneer, his mind was calculating.

“Harry,” Hannibal said softly, kneeling to look at him. "I know your pain runs deep. It's a heavy burden to bear. But I want you to understand something: darkness isn't always what we think it is."

Harry's eyes flashed with suspicion, but he was too exhausted to protest. He simply listened.

"What you're feeling- anger, sadness- these are natural reactions. But they can also cloud your judgment," Hannibal continued. "Sometimes the truth lies beneath layers of pain and anger. To truly see, you have to look beyond the surface."

He placed a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. "You are young, Harry. The world is complicated. Good and evil are not always clear. Sometimes understanding the darkness within - accepting it - is the only way to control it."

Harry blinked, tears threatening again. "I don't want to be like them," he whispered.

Hannibal's smile was warm, but shadowed. "No one wants to be a monster. But understanding what drives others- what drives you- that's the key. Only then can you choose your path wisely."

He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice. "Remember, Harry- the truth often hides in the most unexpected places. Sometimes the greatest insights come from embracing the darkness, not denying it."

Harry looked away, fighting back tears and confusion. Hannibal gently pulled back and stood upright.

‘The seeds have been planted,’ Hannibal thought, watching Harry's confused expression. ‘Now we watch and wait. The boy's moral compass is strong, but even the strongest steel can be bent with gentle pressure.’

He turned back toward the crime scene, where the police had begun their investigation anew. His mind was already weaving a new pattern- one in which Harry's vulnerabilities could be exploited, understood, or perhaps subtly guided into a darker consciousness.

‘In time,’ Hannibal mused, ‘the boy will see that morality is a shifting shadow- one that can be manipulated, shaped, even embraced. And I will be there to guide him, step by step, to the depths of understanding.’

He smiled to himself. The game had only just begun.