Mosaic of Battles

Haunted by her experiences of the war, Hermione visits Hannibal for treatment of her PTSD. She finds herself in a country of mysterious psychiatrists, broken profilers, kind friends, dusty bookshops… and serial killers.

All rights to NBC for their TV Show of "Hannibal", and Thomas Harris for his creation of the character. Also to J.K. Rowling for "Harry Potter", which will never stop inspiring me to read and write more.

IMPORTANT NOTE: I have never suffered from PTSD and cannot profess to understand what it must be like. Whilst I have researched the disorder and tried to be considerate, I truly apologise if my portrayal causes upset, or if there are problems with it.

Chapter One - Adjusting to the Dark

'Just like our eyes, our hearts have a way of adjusting to the dark' - Adam Stanley

Wrapped in an enchanted brown coat with brass buttons, Hermione was unaffected by the cold. Icy winds swirled around her, rustling the cornfields she walked across, but still she never faltered. She was merely a shadow in the sunset - a solitary figure on an evening walk. Although currently aimless, this walk had a destination. (Purpose was evident in the occasional glances to her watch.) Once the minute hand showed ten to six, Hermione finally stopped.

To any animal watching, the curls of atmosphere in her disappearance could easily have been mistook for the blistering winds around. Apparation carried her to the alleyway of a Muggle neighbourhood. For a moment Hermione was mute, braced against a brick wall and looking about her for any danger as she came to her senses. However, for all her worrying, there was no threat. No dark wizards hiding in the shadows. No crackles of spells cursing someone to their grave.

Engines, chattering, horns and footsteps; that was all there was to be heard. That was what she focussed on, breathing in tune with the mechanical beat for a moment. Soon she was able to remove the hand gripping her wand. After a shaking yet tired sigh, shuffle of her scarf and tug on her coat lapels, Hermione forced her hands into her pockets and joined the business of the the street. In this city, she was no longer a solitary figure, but one of many human forms hurrying about.

Hermione's destination was a grand house two streets down. It was set back from the road, allowing a short pathway through a prim and proper garden to the front door. Opening it revealed a waiting room of modest size. Once the door was shut, locking the room in a bubble of sudden silence, Hermione took in every feature of her surroundings. Only then could she move to sit down, choosing the seat with the best vantage points for all entry and exit routes around her. Indeed, living through a period of conflict had left its mark on Hermione.

"Miss Granger?" A well-dressed man stood at the now open door that led into an office. His arrival was in tune with the bells of a clock deeper inside the house. Silvery wisps of hair floated in a smooth arrangement, slightly reminding Hermione of Dumbledore. It had the same ethereal quality.
"Dr Lecter," she returned, rising to shake his offered hand and follow him into the room.
Hannibal Lecter was a notorious muggle psychiatrist (a fact known if one was present in certain psychological circles). It was surprising the Ministry were prepared fund Hermione's appointments with him. Although pressured following the invasive media coverage of Hermione's condition, they were under no obligation to fund therapy, particularly at the premium price Dr Lecter was charging. However, it seemed they were desperate to reduce public scrutiny, and funding treatment for 'the brightest, broken witch of the war' was their way of an apology. Besides, Muggle currency was worth very little to them. Indeed, the problem of her choice was more prominently that he was a muggle.

Dr Lecter's office was quite unlike magical psychiatry practices Hermione had visited. The room reflected his unique approach, quite different to anything else advertised. His differences were not necessarily noticeable, but there was a twist to his business cards - an unusual tone, as it were - that had contributed in compelling Hermione to consider him.
"I trust your journey was safe?" Hermione nodded. "I am glad. Please, take a seat," he prompted. Again, Hermione examined the room, taking in every feature, before electing to sit in the chair clearly designated for her. Although not ideal in its view, the leather seat gave her a fair view of the psychiatrist, and she forced herself to trust that he would protect her from anything that came up from behind.

"You are not a fan of my decor?"
"I have nothing against it," corrected Hermione, "just... I find I must make sure I know a room before I am seated in it."
"Am I correct in assuming you would prefer it if your seat had its back to the wall?"
"You would not be wrong," Hermione confided. "Though I know I must trust you. This is the first step." Dr Lecter hummed at Hermione's reluctant reasoning and moved to sit in the seat opposite her.
"Is that why you left your previous psychiatrists? As a result of a break in trust?"
"Quite so," confirmed Hermione. The decision to try Muggle therapy may seem an unusual choice, since Hermione would be unable to speak freely of the Wizarding World. However, it was his ignorance that she so desperately desired. There wasn't a single witch or wizard who did not know Hermione's name. It resulted from growing up as the best friend of Harry Potter. It came from gaining a prestigious position in the Ministry, then losing it after a series of very public breakdowns. It was caused by the following months where her name was plastered on every newspaper stand, details of Hermione's state of mind draped across the front page.

That was the beauty of the Muggle world though - she was unknown. She could be like any other patient.

"How do you feel," asked Dr Lecter, "right now, in this moment?" Hermione closed her eyes and thought carefully on an answer. It would be easy to describe everything she commonly felt – from fear and numbness to overwhelming anger and despair. In this instance, though, she decided to explain the feeling she dwelled on most of all.
"Followed," Hermione answered. It was not really emotion, as he may've anticipated, but it was a true reflection of what buzzed inside her mind. "There is always a sensed presence that accompanies me." Hermione scratched at her jaw. "It makes me paranoid. Restless."
"Is there more to his presence than just a feeling? Do they bear a form?"
"Not as such. They may resemble one person, or many. Sometimes it is a friend, and sometimes an enemy. Heavy over me, breathing on my neck. Every whistle in the wind is their movement, and every touch their hand. I try to ignore, but best I try it never leaves. Though it may calm itself, it is never truly gone. I fear I shall never be free."

Hermione looked down to her hands and held them together. It was like holding someone in reassurance.
"I think I have post-traumatic stress disorder."
"Have you been previously diagnosed?" She shook her head. Wizarding psychology did not share disorders with Muggle classification systems.
"I've read books on the disorder though. I fit the symptoms - DSM5 or ICD10 - I'm in tune with each definition." Hannibal nodded. Alike any doctor, Hermione was certain he wouldn't be too happy about someone making their own diagnosis, and thought he would probably rather see for himself.
"I... It started about six months after I finished school." Hermione closed her eyes. "It was a boarding school. I went there from the age of eleven onwards, but bad things progressively became more regular."
"Are these experiences you wish to discuss?"
"No." Hermione's breath was short and heart beating. Her eyes flickered open, and the relief at seeing Hannibal in front of her rather than a replay of those years was evident. However, the beating of her heart as it did on those nights – the nights she ran, the nights she battled. Every pulse was a reference to that. "I don't think I can. Not yet." This was accepted, and Hannibal rose from his chair to collect an envelope from his desk. His poise and posture was immaculate even in that simple task. Hermione watched him, trying to steady her breathing.

"Are you familiar with psychotherapy, Hermione?" asked Hannibal upon return.
"I've read about it." She rubbed at her forehead, wiping the threat of sweat, and pushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. "It's a talking therapy originating from Freud. Always been a bit sceptical of it though."
"Freud was of the opinion that trauma is repressed in the unconscious mind, and utilised various techniques in an attempt to bring it to the conscious mind."
"I don't think I've repressed my traumas, Doctor Lecter," said Hermione softly, "they are certainly present in my thoughts."
"There's no need to worry - that is not the purpose of these cards." Hannibal cleanly removed the contents of the envelope onto the table, and presented the neat pile to Hermione.
"Rorschach ink blots," she observed.
"Indeed. All I ask is that you say the first image you see, no matter how unusual or embarrassing it may be." Hermione looked to him in compliance, quite willing and prepared to do the task. She considered it a Muggle version of reading tea leaves, and far more reliable at predicting than anything inferred during Divination lessons.

Unfortunately, all the peace just gathered was immediately destroyed on a glance at the first card. It seemed Hermione was destined to see terror in everything, even an inkblot.
"A building collapsing. It's like the ceiling is pulling it down." The blot seemed to twist and curl, pulling down and in.
"And this one?" Hannibal asked, presenting the next card. Hermione traced a finger over the twisting and curling shape. Her fingertip shook on the edge of the black shape.
"A moth," she began, "with shattered wings, as if they were made of glass."
"How about... this?" he asked, selecting another.
"A wolf devouring it's prey."

A wolf devouring his prey. Her words flickered like damaged lights, and stopped as her room turned to black. Her eyes shut, willing the images to leave, but was unable to stop them as they flooded in. Around her roared the thunder of a war, with crashes and screams and curses. She saw black then red then green as spells flew by.
"No, please," cried Hermione, grabbing at her hair and curling inwards.

Lavender's body lay abandoned in the corridor. Her clothes were torn, the vicious scratches of an animal visible on the skin below. Eyes empty, mouth dry, lips purple and neck red. Hogwarts seemed to go still, whirring around her like a tornado whilst she stood in the calm centre. As she stepped closer, the smell of blood twisted upwards and pushed Hermione back again. She wanted to go to Lavender, to hold her... But she couldn't. She couldn't even look anymore. Hermione turned and ran away, back to the heat of battle and anonymous bodies. Yet, with each step she took, Lavender followed. Hermione's sensed presence.

The body vanished in a blink, flickering into her peripheral vision. Although it hurt to look Hermione kept her eyes open and fixed on the white light of the window. When the red and green faded and the screams muffled into distant sounds, Hermione looked back to Dr Lecter. As reality smudged together enough to offer clarity, she realised he was watching her intently… and, for a profession that revolved around emotions, he was notably stoic. Even now, after her episode, he wore the same simple expression. It was a tightly controlled nonchalance that both calmed Hermione and made her uneasy. Dr Lecter did not speak, and barely moved – it was almost catatonic, and that in itself unnerved her greatly.

"My past," stuttered Hermione, coughing to clear her throat, "is always with me. I cannot escape it." She waited a moment, enough for the second hand on the clock to move twice. "If none of it had happened, would I still be as I am?" She glanced down to finger her fraying scarf. "Have I lost myself to it?" Dr Lecter broke his silence then, shuffling back to sit comfortably in his chair.
"Do you consider yourself to be lost?"
"I don't feel the same. I never feel content, like I did when I was younger."
"Never?" he questioned. Hermione flinched and glanced down to her boots.
"I cannot be alone. The door is always open. Though occasionally I can feel comfortable with my companions. Maybe that is my new version of satisfaction." They made eye contact.
"We shall have to endeavour on emptying the room sometimes then."
"That'd be nice."

I must note that the definition of 'ethereal' is 'extremely delicate and light in a way that seems too perfect for this world' and I believe that is a fabulous description of Hannibal's hair