A/N : And we're back! IMPORTANT: I've added one last sentence to the end of Chapter 14. It is rather important to see…draw what conclusions from it you will. ;) Also, I've decided to take a leaf from Webber's book and engage in a bit of self-plagiarizing. A large portion of the garden scene in this chapter comes from another epic of mine that I wrote with a friend: Labyrinth of the Burning Heart. You can find it under the penname "Labyrinth" on this site if you are at all interested. Without further ado, on with the chapter!

Chapter 17

Nocturnes

Dr. Hannibal Lecter set his cupful of hot tea on his desk to cool when the door to his study opened with the force of a gale wind. He steadied the cup with one hand, even as he felt Clarice move up to his desk with all the warmth of a midwinter blizzard.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Her voice matched her temper with chilling precision.

"Pouring myself some tea, as you can see."

"Do not play games with me right now, it could be hazardous to your health. All I know is that in one hour Christine Daae is going to walk in here for an hour's worth of therapy with you. Now you just tell me what you think you're doing."

"I believe you listened quite closely to the conversation."

She snorted. "You don't heal people out of the goodness of your heart and you don't hire yourself out to the whims of lovesick fools."

"People change."

Clarice did not miss the gleam in his eyes as he said this. She rose to the bait anyways. "No they don't. You're still the same"—her hand touched the edges of the teacup, "creature"—fingers wrapped around the porcelain in a bloodless grip, "you were seven years ago." With a sweep of her arm, she sent the teacup crashing into a nearby armoire. The porcelain vessel shattered on impact and the hot liquid hissed as it ate into the fine wood.

Any other onlooker would have been stunned. Any other husband would have been outraged by this seemingly indiscriminate act of temper. But Hannibal Lecter let his eyes travel downwards to the white shards now littering the carpet, some with traces of tea leaves still clinging to the edges. He said nothing, but Clarice was not fooled; she could feel the air around him solidifying with rage.

"You never did like tea," she said in a trembling voice. "But that didn't matter, all that mattered was proving that you were right. And for that you ignored everything, even the fact that you couldn't stand the smell of tea leaves. They reminded you too much of your home." She saw his hands begin to clench and unclench and for the second time in less than twenty-four hours she fought the absurd desire to reach out in comfort. "Look at them, Hannibal. Watch them until your eyes fall from their sockets, they will never collect themselves and reassemble, they will never turn back the clock. Your sister remains dead. I remain…as I am now, and you cannot change it."

His voice was like a volcano about to erupt, yet ever so quiet. "I have killed…no, made people wish they were dead for far less than that."

"Then do it now." Clarice pulled her hair away from her neck, exposing her pale throat. "Go on. I know you've lost none of your strength. And our guest cannot hear anything that occurs in this room."

He stood slowly from his chair, a fluid motion akin to a cobra unfurling its hood. "What are you doing, Clarice? What is the meaning of this…game?"

"Just this. If you thought for one minute that I would stand idly by while you put this young girl through the same torment you did me, you're very much mistaken. I will fight you with everything I have, and you know more than anyone what I am capable of."

The cobra struck with lightning speed and with the lightness of a kiss. Clarice gasped as a column of fire seemed to race up her spine and strained to escape from this invisible grip. Dr. Lecter restrained her with one hand, holding her firmly against his chest as his other hand hovered right beneath her skull, his fingers resting against the hollow with deceptive lightness. He pushed upward. Clarice squirmed.

His voice caressed her ear like liquid satin. "The crown/meridian pressure point, Clarice. A moderate amount of directed pressure will induce approximately twenty minutes of unconsciousness. Heavy pressure…" he sighed. "Let's just say that it's best to be careful."

Her neck was beginning to burn from its state of suspension and black dots swam before her eyes. Her world reduced to his voice in her ear.

"And now that I have an attentive audience, I shall tell you…you are correct, I could very well destroy our young songbird. She certainly hasn't far to go. But what would be the value of that? If you can't believe in my capacity for selflessness then how about my taste for…shall I say, amusement?" His fingers moved over the faint bruise already forming on her skin. "I have always been fascinated with pain, this you know. Yours, Clarice, was sweet intoxication. But one need not cause pain to enjoy it…you know of what I speak. Do the slaughtered lambs …the innocents you could not save, still plague your dreams? No, I thought not…I did that Clarice…I caused them to scream and then I caused them to disappear. Pain is like the sweetest wine when drawn from a wound. Will you take the chance with me? You did once, after all, ah Clarice…how I remember."

His fingers moved away from the pressure point on her skull and he sighed again softly, his breath stirring the tiny hairs on her neck as he kissed the bruised skin tenderly.

With a single, deft motion that originated from her days with the Agency, she twisted away from him and left his empty hands still hanging in the air. Her face was strangely flushed as the darkness receded from her vision. She put one hand to the back of her head.

He could tell from her pursed lips that there were many things she desperately wanted to say, and he waited to see what she would unleash upon him first. She could still be so unpredictable…he felt something like an old flame stirring within him.

"I will be watching," she said finally. Then she brushed past him and slammed the door.

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Christine had once seen an old fortune-teller in a traveling show with her father. She was five years old and her father had taken her by the hand and led her to an old and weather-beaten tent. She remembered the trepidation when she peered inside and peered past the smoke and bits of colored glass dangling upon strings to the mysterious figure. The old man was wrapped in brightly colored cloth, smelled like dusty herbs, and was staring most reverently into a smoky crystal ball he held in fingers resembling bleached claws.

She had felt fear, wonder, awed curiosity, and a bit of ridiculous mirth. And this was how she felt now as she sat in an armchair so large that it almost swallowed her petite form—staring across the desk at Monsieur Fell. Except that this time, there was not a trace of amusement in her mind.

Christine found her gaze drawn to the doctor's hands as he carefully organized the papers upon his desk. They looked nothing like the Phantom's – fleshed out and tanned as they were – and yet in the way they moved, the fluid grace of his fingers, every movement deliberate, she couldn't help drawing a comparison. She continued to stare until he must have noticed and folded his hands upon the table.

It was then that she noticed the absence of a wedding ring on his hand. But surely…perhaps he did not wear it at home…but whyever not? The inexplicable mystery would have to wait, however, for he suddenly moved his hands, quite aware of her gaze, and cleared his throat.

Oh God, he was going to speak…what would he ask? What would he demand that she tell him? Did she have the strength to refuse him? She had heard his voice only briefly the other day at dinner, but she remembered its dark and warm timbre, a tone that brooked no argument.

"Mademoiselle…" She took a nervous breath and then looked up to meet his eyes. And was stunned to see him smiling at her without a trace of inquisitiveness or inquiry. "My wife planted some beautiful gardens on the eastern side of this house. Perhaps you would like to see them?"

"I…" Her prepared response jammed in her throat. "That would be nice," she said at last.

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Dr. Hannibal Lecter watched a giggling Christine Daae run about on the paths of the garden with a warm intensity that did not broach his neutral expression. Something about the way she laughed, a smile utterly transforming her wan, drawn face, her eyes filling with a healthy glow and wisps of hair clinging to her full cheeks. It stirred the air in corridors of his memory palace he thought long ago abandoned. He sighed and sat down upon a stone bench and let Christine run her heart out. The talking would come later, when she was ready.

Christine ran between hedges and flowerbeds, breathless with joy, losing count of the number of times she stopped and turned to reexamine the newest flowerbed. The garden was obviously well-tended, yet none of the arrangements were forced or misplaced. The blossoms were allowed to spill over onto the path and seemed only to be restrained by their willingness to allow observers passage through their maze of color and thorns. The sheer abundance of colors reflected in her eyes like so many gemstones. Azure blue, flaming red, pearl white, golden yellow, and rich maroon. She reached out to touch a bed of peach carnations with their edges stained blood red and stopped when she thought of the doctor sitting only a few rows away. He could not see her through the hedges, but something told her that he would know anyway. Which is why she jumped out of her skin when his voice came from right behind her.

"Go on. I am quite certain they would not object."

She watched him bend down with fluid grace and pluck one of the peach roses out of the ground without ever disturbing the soil. With a deft motion of his fingers, he snipped off the bottom of the stem, leaving about four centimeters attached to the blossom. He gestured for her to come towards him.

"May I?"

She did not resist as he slipped the flower into her dark chestnut hair and tucked it behind her ear to hold it in place. He stepped back to look at his handiwork and smiled. "Now all we need is another blossom of a suitably darker color and you'll look like a proper harlequin."

Laughter escaped Christine's lips before she could contain it, and she clapped her hands to her mouth, looking mortified that such a sound should have come from her. Her eyes flashed with anguish.

Dr. Lecter took a sip of her pain and found it exquisite. With a sigh, he released it. "Mme Daae, you are certainly welcome to smile whenever you wish."

Her eyes went wide and then she nearly laughed again. "No, it's not that I don't—it's just, I mean, it's been—I'm not making any sense am I?"

"You might if you slowed down and finished your sentences," Dr. Lecter said, his eyes laughing.

Christine stared. And then she allowed another smile to play across her lips, this time not stifling it. They had walked around the hedge by then and she sat down upon the nearby bench. "It's strange, you're not at all as I expected, monsieur Fe—doctor."

"And what did you expect?"

Her face twisted. "An elegant room. Low lighting from candles. Your formless voice coming out of the dark in a disgusting attempt to hypnotize me."

He arched his head to one side and made his play. "You mean to say that you did not enjoy that?"

She frowned. "I don't—"she went pale as understanding dawned.

He watched her carefully. This would determine whether she would ever trust him again. Her mouth was half-open with outrage, the edges of her lips white. Her eyes, until one minute ago so lifeless and pale, blazed like an inferno. He watched anger, confusion, fear, and a grudging hint of respect pass through them in the blink of a second.

She swallowed. "How did you…?" She stopped and shook her head. "No, I shouldn't even bother asking. For that is why Raoul sent me to you, is it not? So you could get inside my head…that's all they want to do, all they ever wanted to do…"

She lowered her head. Dr. Lecter could see that she was retreating back inside herself. He knelt quickly besides her, positioning himself in her peripheral vision, so she could easily look away if she wished. He looked at the tempting curve of her arm…the limb was so thin, the blue veins prominent against the pale skin, it looked as if it would break should he even touch it. He placed his hand on the bench.

"Mademoiselle…" Her head turned like a marionette's toward the sound of his voice. "I am not here to reduce you to a set of influences. Your lover may have his own ideas about what I do, but let me tell you myself."

"He's not—"

"I am not a magician, nor am I a magic pill that will cure your mind and make everything as if it never was. I am here to listen, and I am here to help you see things you would refuse to otherwise. I am your guide, Christine, not your doctor, and you are not a diseased patient." The young woman's eyes had been growing wider and wider as he spoke. He reached forward and touched the blossom in her hair lightly and then finally asked, "Will that work for you?"

Christine stared. Her mouth opened, and then closed again. She looked down at her hands in her lap, her thoughts twisting upon each other in her mind.

In the end, it was the light pressure of the rose against her temple that did it. Like the softest touch to a trembling set of scales, the presence of the flower reminded her of another set of eyes…dark brown rather than maroon, smiling warmly as the owner lowered the violin to pick up the proffered blossom before turning to place it in the flowing locks of his little angel…

She swallowed and looked at him, kneeling patiently by her side, waiting for her answer. "Thank you for the rose," she said finally.

He finally reached out then, covering her small hand in his own. His palm was warm and dry, like snakeskin. "I shall see you in a few days, Christine," he said simply.

Shifting her gaze to look out at the garden once more, she nodded.

"Very well then," he continued, his voice now clipped and professional. "I believe that brings us to the end of our session. If you would be so kind as to join me in the dining room? There are just a few papers that we need to go over."

As Christine got to her feet, she saw him reach over to a nearby flowerbed and pluck a blood red rose from the soil, motes of dirt clinging for dear life to the threadlike roots. She realized then just how close to the house the gardens were. The bench they had been sitting upon was a mere foot away from the eastern wall of the mansion. As she watched, he placed the rose on a windowsill, tipping his head slightly at the unseen occupant inside, a sardonic smile crossing his lips. Then he turned and offered her his arm. After only a moment's hesitation, she took it.

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Erik was drawn to the vent by a sound he had not heard in months. And longer still since it had come from the sweet throat he recognized now. He listened, hardly daring to breathe, as Christine and Dr. Lecter walked into the dining room downstairs and sat down, she laughing…barely audible, but laughing.

He had nearly forgotten the beautiful sound of her happiness. True, the joy in her voice was frail and tentative, and nervous, like a snowflake smiling at the spring sun. Oh but even so…

Her voice faded away as she and the doctor finished whatever business they had in the dining room. Erik instinctively turned towards the door to follow her presence. He had taken two steps when the attack hit.

This was no crushing pressure around his chest, although he would have much preferred that to the bruising ache and prickling sensation that pulsated through the crook of his right elbow. He swayed on his feet, resting an arm on the desk.

Had it been that long already?

He had noticed two weeks ago that the minimal supply of morphine that he had on his person was running low. Since then he had tried to modulate his intake, until he only needed an injection once every few days.

But it had only been two days this time…and this time he knew he did not have more.

A dozen hot needles jabbed into his arm again, running up along the vein towards his heart. He wrapped his arms around his chest in a bruising grip and closed his eyes, doing his best to ignore it.

Christine's voice was gone.

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Hannibal Lecter waved once at Christine Daae's departing form before closing the front door. Their second session had taken place a mere four days after the first and had gone equally well. They had spoken of many things and when their time was over she had remembered none of them. But she had left with an inexplicable sense of contentment, exactly as he intended.

Now he walked through the hallway lined with portraits of ancestors who had never lived and entered his study. The cup of tea was still there where he had left it after the session was over. He sat down next to the delicate porcelain vessel with the agility of a cat.

Dr. Lecter blew on the tea and took one sip. Still too hot. He set the cup down on the desk and leaned back in his chair. Slowly, almost lazily his eyes slid up the wall to move across the ceiling. He pursed his lips, considering.

Then he stood from the bench and walked easily out the door and went up the stairs. He opened the door without knocking in time to see Erik tearing the top drawer out of the bedside dresser.

The other man looked up in mixed shock and embarrassment as he entered. Dr. Lecter leaned against the doorjamb. "Are you looking for something?" he asked as calmly as if he had just dropped by for dinner.

Erik's tongue seemed to have welded to the roof of his mouth. "I…" The blind adrenaline that had fueled his mad hunt was gone now and he felt his hands trembling. The drawer slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor in a clatter of wood.

"Yes?" said Dr. Lecter, his expression unchanging.

His vision must have been going with his sanity, Erik could have sworn that the doctor's eyes were glowing red. He doubled over as another bout of nausea squeezed his insides into jelly.

When he could see once again, he was staring up at the ceiling and Dr. Lecter's face hovered above his face. The doctor's hand was on his forehead, his touch fiery hot. He drew his hand away slowly as Erik pulled himself into a sitting position.

Dr. Lecter stood where he was for a moment, staring hard at Erik, who dropped his gaze to the floor. Dr. Lecter turned abruptly and walked out the door. He returned a few minutes later holding a syringe of clear liquid.

"As a host," he said, handing the syringe to Erik, who accepted it wordlessly, "I cannot deny my guest. As a doctor I refuse to see you in pain."

Erik rolled the syringe in his fingers, feeling the familiar ache digging screwdrivers into the crook of his elbow. "And as Hannibal Lecter?"

He smiled grimly. "I am disgusted by your weakness and would cheerfully cut out every single vein in your body if Clarice would not murder me for doing so."

Erik wasn't sure whether to laugh or shudder. Dr. Lecter's eyes were dark and unamused. "I hope you picked up more useful habits during your time in Persia as well."

"Well…you didn't stay around to find out."

Dr. Lecter took a step back, his eyes disbelieving. "What shall I say, Erik? 'I apologize for being captured like a common criminal?' How you picked up the mistaken notion of my omnipotence…I know not. But you of all people should know better." He turned to go.

"Wait," said Erik, reaching into the pocket of his suit jacket, emboldened by something he could not describe. His hand emerged holding a folded piece of paper. "This…you should see this."

The doctor looked at the proffered token suspiciously. "And what, pray tell, is this?"

"The truth." And without giving him a chance to comprehend, Erik tossed the paper into the air between them.

Dr. Lecter caught it effortlessly before clenching his fist tightly around it. "If you think that I would stoop to pawing through her private—"

"If you would prefer, you may ask her yourself." Erik saw Hannibal regarding him with a look of utter contempt and it was not until he remembered the weight of the object in his hand that he remembered why.

"This changes nothing." Dr. Lecter stuffed the crumpled piece of paper into his suit pocket and turned to go once again. "Doctor's orders. Take your medicine, Erik. Yet another thing you cannot live without." The click of the closing door announced his departure.

With his presence gone, Erik felt the throbbing sensation in his arm double and his hand began to shake. He set the needle against his skin and hesitated for an eternal second before plunging it into his flesh.

The needle on the syringe broke against the wall as he hurled the object away as hard as he could.

His self-disgust crawled away on little feet of darkness as the sensation rushed through him. It felt different this time…he could not feel any warmth in his veins, but instead a blood-bruising rush of something that soared up his spine and threw open all the doors of his mind like a gust of wind.

He stood up suddenly and laughed into the dark room. There were musical notes floating in the darkness that was no longer dark at all but bathed in a bright black light. The notes had ragged edges and their stems were sharp knives and from each hung a little picture. He could see himself in some of them, dark, lurking figures in others, figures he thought he had long forgotten.

In one area though, was a particularly large collection of images of an angel. He reached out towards one, brushing other notes on his way, hearing them echo and hum in his mind as he did so. She looked particularly radiant in the one he eventually took in his hand, light glistening on her dark hair and off her smiling eyes. Somehow his hand had also closed around the neck of a violin and the nearby bow. Without another thought, he raised the instrument to his chin and began to play.

One floor below, Clarice Starling stopped dead in the doorway to the dining room, a withered rose clutched in her hand. The petals were wrinkled and faded but had been blood red a mere four days ago. Another petal fell away from the blossom as the tune sank into a particularly wild chord. She did not notice but continued to listen as the violin wept moonbeams of music, unrestrained and passionate, like a flaming star plummeting from the sky to its doom.