CHAPTER FOUR: PUMPKIN JUICE PART ONE:

Freddie Lound's P.O.V

"Please, stop! Don't do this!"

Freddie Lounds's heart thundered in her chest, more rapid than even her skittering steps. The twigs and sharp pebbles dug into the soft skin of her knees as she stumbled up the drive-way, falling, crashing, wincing as the hand in her hair wound tighter, heaving her up. The hand twisted viciously, snapping her head back and Freddie let out a short, keen cry of pain as her scalp thrummed at the pressure. Her face loomed out of the dark night around them, half aflame by the orange porch-light. But nothing, nought, could outshine those unnatural green eyes.

"If you don't stop struggling, I'm going to remove a limb. Do you understand?"

Hemlock Potter looked so calm, her voice mildly chiding like a mother speaking to her babe and Freddie couldn't put the young woman she had met in that hospital room to the same person who had lured her here, dragged her through the woods, threatened bodily mutilation as if telling her if she didn't eat her greens, it was time out. Before Freddie could plead some more, ask, beg, damn, even snivel, the shorter, younger woman was dragging her towards the old Hobbs's residence front door. Just as they landed on the porch, Freddie nearly losing balance once more, the front door swung open and Freddie nearly cried from relief.

"Abigail! Oh, Abigail! Help, call the police!... Abigail?"

The brunette stood there, watching, leaning against the door, and it was then that Freddie saw it. The blood. On her shirt. On her hands, up Abigail's arms. Hemlock didn't hesitate, releasing her hold on Freddie's hair, she locked her fingers into the collar of her shirt before Freddie could bolt and was shoving her through the door, down the hall way. Behind her, Freddie could hear Abigail follow and her soft, slightly tremulous voice echoed after them, playing catch up to Hemlocks swift march.

"What are you going to do to her?"

Once again, Freddie cried out as Hemlock came to a doorway and booted her into the room. Freddie fell, her knees flaring in pain, her elbows too as her head bounced off the hardwood flooring. The world swam, so many colours, swirling, dancing and Freddie couldn't find her footing as she scrambled on the floor like a fish. Something wet and thick was making her lose any grip she could form. When the world stopped spinning, Freddie came face to face with reality. The wetness… It was a puddle of cooling blood.

Nicholas Boyle, the brother to the murdered girl, the man Freddie herself had given this exact address to, laid staring blankly at her, stomach split open like a ripe pumpkin. Freddie cried out, tried to push away, but a boot, Hemlock's, planted itself onto her back and stamped her onto the floor like a butterfly pinned to a collector's parchment paper.

"Nothing she will remember. Now, be quiet. I have to concentrate. The last thing we need right now is for me to botch her memories and leave her a babbling mess that believes she's a goat."

Botch her memories? What was she going to do? What was happening? A story… All Freddie wanted was a story, she never intended for herself to be a part of it, though. With tears blossoming in her eyes, Freddie turned her neck as far as it could and stared up at the woman… Child really, that was keeping her still and trapped.

"You won't get away with this."

Hemlock smiled at her, as she reached up and behind her head, towards her bun and slowly pulled free the long, white stick she had holding her hair up. Her curls flopped down, all tangles and rebellion, as she aimed the tip of the wooden stick right at Freddie's face. It wasn't a knife. It wasn't a gun. Just a stick. A stick! And still, something lurched in Freddie's gut, something screamed in the back of her mind and her blood ran cold. As cold and tauntingly biting as Hemlock's voice had become.

"No… Actually, it will be you who won't get away with this. Look at what you did Freddie… Look at who you killed… You slit him from naval to sternum…"

Freddie's breathing became erratic, her fingers clawing into the wood and the boot pressed down harder as Hemlock dropped to her haunches to jab the stick into her temple. The wood felt frigid, abnormally so.

"I didn't do anything! I-"

The tip of the stick trailed downwards, curving across Freddie's cheekbone and jawline to tickle at the underneath of her chin before it was savagely butting in, forcing Freddie to tilt her head back unless she wanted the stick to tear into the soft skin there. Not once did Hemlock's gaze ever leave Freddie's own.

"Oh, didn't you? You're a reporter, aren't you? You like good stories. Well, Miss Lounds, you're about to become a headline yourself. How does Victims grieving brother slain in struggle with news reporter sound? You did, after all, lead him here."

Freddie's body began to tremble, a tear fell and her mind was jumbled. Run. She needed to get away. Crazy. They were all crazy.

"I-I-… I didn't kill him! I didn't do this! No one will believe you!"

Hemlock chuckled and Freddie wanted to cry as the stick went back to pressing into her temple, grinding.

"They won't have to believe me. They'll believe you when you confess."

No. It wouldn't end like this. It couldn't. Frantically, Freddie's eyes darted around the room looking for anything, anyone to help. They landed on a shadow in the very corner of the living room, a lonely watcher standing guard. Observing. Freddie went to shout, to ask for help, but all her words and pleas died on her tongue as Dr Hannibal Lecter simply cocked his head and smiled. His face, that lopsided grin, those dark eyes, were the last thing Freddie saw before Hemlock was whispering in her ear and the world burst to black.

"Imperio."

72 hours ago…

Alana's P.O.V

This was wrong. That was the underlying feeling pinning most of Alana Blooms thoughts as she trailed her niece, Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter through the winding hospital hallways. She had taken her niece in, tried to make a home, to get her away from the bloodshed, murderers and darker shades of life. For the most part, she had succeeded, and yet… And yet, like mould, it had a way of creeping back towards Hemlock and latching itself to her.

Wearily, during Hannibal's rather short call informing her that Hemlock would be staying with him for a little while longer, followed by a request to take her along to visit Abigail Hobbs of all people, Alana had given her hesitant acceptance. With the condition of her presence, of course. Alana's reluctant submission to allowing Hemlock to visit Abigail had nothing to do with the girl herself. Alana had met Abigail previously, and while viewing the young woman as traumatized, what with her own horrid experiences, it wasn't Abigail's overall presence that caused much concern for Alana. It was Hemlocks possible reaction to her that made Alana tentative to agree in the first place.

Abigail Hobbs had recently been in a very distressing situation, her father had been a serial killer, and subsequently, she had survived an attack herself. Hemlock Potter had also recently survived such an encounter herself, and in this fragile state of healing, any reminders of her own experiences could further trauma rather then easing it. Alana had taken her niece in to protect her, to help her heal, not to remind her of her own ghosts and to further any horrific memories she housed. Still, despite her reservations, after a rather consoling talk from Hannibal on how Hemlock's therapy session had gone, as close as doctor confidentiality could limit Alana to know, the psychiatrist had finally relinquished, with the amendment of her participation, naturally.

And so, here they were, about to enter Abigail Hobbs's private quarters in their little band of misfits. Unfortunately, as they got closer, Alana realised just how thin these hospital walls proved to be as two contending voices reached not only her ears, but Hannibal's, Hemlock's and more importantly, Will's.

"How did they catch him?"

"A man called Will Graham, works for the FBI but isn't the FBI. He catches insane men because he can think like them."

Alana winced quite heavily as Will shuffled to the very front of their group and twisted the door handle, jostling the door open with an arching sweep. It was to no one's surprise, but to perhaps Hemlock's, to see Freddie Lounds lurching over Abigail's bed like a vulture. Not six hours after awakening from her coma and here Freddie was, their most notorious news reporter, haggling for her next headline. Slowly, she turned around, bright red hair flashing in the unattractive fluorescent lighting, eyeing Will Graham like a child would eye a needle.

"Because he is insane."

Will held onto his composure rather well, given the circumstances, as he and Hannibal strolled in, Alana not far behind as Hemlock stayed at their rear, simply watching. He even managed to keep his voice light and polite, something Alana didn't think she could accomplish in his shoes.

"Will you excuse us please."

However, there was no question in his voice, no hesitance, just a hardly concealed order. Freddie, in retaliation, stood up but stayed close to Abigail's bedside. Trying to ignore the infuriating woman, Will bypassed her and turned his attention to the brunette laying in bed, a thick gauze taped to her neck, pale and wide-eyed at the abrupt interruption, or, perhaps, at being caught speaking to a woman like Freddie Lounds.

"I'm special agent Will Graham."

Nonetheless, Freddie was not finished, not when she could get another knife in and with, in Alana's opinion, a rather smug smile on her lips, spoke over her shoulder to a quizzical Abigail.

"By special agent, he means not really an agent. He didn't get passed the screening process… Too unstable."

Will blinked and his eyes dropped to the polished flooring as Alana finally went to intercede on his behalf, only to be beaten to the punchline by Hannibal.

"I really must insist you leave the room."

Knowing her time was short, Freddie delved a hand into her handbag, procured a small, rectangular piece of card, a business card, she went to give it to Abigail.

"If you want to talk-"

Will lurched, snatched the card from her hand before Abigail could move and rather harshly filched it into his blazers inner pocket. Freddie's smile dropped. Breathing in roughly, Freddie held her ground before she thought better of it and went to leave. The smack of palm meeting wood rang out and Alana startled at the noise.

At the doorway, Hemlock had slithered partially into the room, and as Freddie had went to leave, had shot her arm out to block the older woman. For a moment, all Hemlock did was stare at Freddie. For a moment, Alana didn't breathe. For a moment… Harry's face terrified her. It was a dark thing, eyes sleeked and gleaming, hooded, features still and calm but cold, like carven alabaster. Then it was gone and Hemlock was smiling, dimples and all, her voice so pleasantly jovial, it was almost infectiously happy.

"Karma, Miss Lounds, finds us all. Remember that."

Then Hemlock's arm dropped and Freddie couldn't have been more in a rush to leave the room if she tried. Taking one last step into the room, Hemlock kicked the door closed behind her but stayed close, away, an outsider looking at the ceiling. Before Alana could question whether Hemlock was feeling okay, Will was taking his glasses off, a nervous tick of his, as he addressed Abigail and Alana was forced to drop the topic until later. Perhaps when they were in private.

"Abigail, this is Dr Lecter. Do you remember us?"

Abigail swallowed, her Adams apple bobbing profusely as she looked around at them, giving a quick inquisitive glance to Hemlock that she soon enough glided over, before settling those pale eyes of hers back onto Will, nodding.

"I remember you."

Abigail's jaw twitched a little, she blinked, and then she hit the hammer on the head with four words.

"You killed my dad."

Will's gaze dropped once more and even from behind him, Alana could see the minute buzz of repressed feelings shaking his shoulders just so. What was there to say to that? Denial? There was no denial. Justification? It would only make Abigail's undercurrent of anger worse. Just as silence began to fall upon them like a blanket of frigid snow, Hemlock's voice piped up from the doorway.

"You should be thankful."

Four sets of eyes snapped towards her as Alana spluttered and tried to intervene. She knew this was a bad idea. She should have never agreed. It was too early, for Hemlock and Abigail.

"Harry-"

Hemlock kicked away from the door, almost prowling towards Abigail's bed, completely overlooking Alana, Hannibal and Will.

"You obviously know enough about your father, given the little conversation we walked in on. In the end, he would have killed you. That's what it was all coming to, your death."

Abigail heckled, pushing herself further up and into her pillows.

"I know what my father did. I know what he wanted to do. But he was still my father."

Hemlock's answering chuckle sent shivers down Alana's spine, freezing her where she stood.

"And that's why you should be thankful it was someone else and not you who ended it. Tell me, if it had been just you and your father, when he had you pinned, when he went to slice your throat, you would have hit back, wouldn't you? That's survival. The urge to live is written into every single one of use. In the end, it would have been you or him left standing. Trust me, you don't want his blood on your hands."

Alana lost her own grip on any sort of composure.

"Hemlock!"

A mistake. This had all been a horrible, horrible mistake on her part. Next time, she would listen to her gut when it came to matters concerning her niece. Leave. She and Hemlock needed to leave now. Her heels clacked on the flooring as Alana moved forward, hand reaching, about to grab Hemlock by the sleeve, but another hand joined the fray. Glancing to her side, she was met with Hannibal as he slowly shook his head in the negative. What the hell was he thinking? Nonetheless, this little interlude gave Abigail enough time to fluster and grow red-cheeked as she indignantly shot back at Hemlock.

"How old are you? Twelve? What do you even know about anything? You have no idea."

Alana pulled her arm free, frowning deeply as she went to take another step towards Hemlock, to stop this madness before her niece could answer in anger and escalate this whole ordeal. Yet, again, Hemlock surprised her. Instead of growing flushed herself, Hemlock nodded, leisurely strolled to the very edge of Abigail's bed and sat down at the foot, perching like a raven. When she spoke, there was no anger in her voice, no winter coldness, no indignation or wounded ego. Just an odd sense of… Fondness. A nostalgia that seemed to old for a young woman like herself to have.

"There was a boy once. His name was Tom Riddle. You could say he was like a father to me. He taught me nearly everything I know. How to survive. How to live. How to hunt. He taught me a lot more than my real father ever did. Like me, he was an orphan, left alone, abused, with nothing but his name. People even said I look like him."

Tom Riddle. This wasn't the first time Alana had heard this strangers name, and she doubted it would be the last. Of course, Hemlock had proven to be a very… Reclusive individual, especially when it came to matters close to herself. Not once had Hemlock ever given more than she needed to. When questioned, no matter how lightly, on subjects or things concerning her past, she was liable to give short, clipped answers. Nothing more.

Still, she slipped sometimes, allowed Alana a minuscule peep into her little world. It was never much of a glance, and normally, it pertained to the very man at hand. Where did you learn to cook like this Harry? Tom knew how to cook. Oh, so you like jogging? Have you always liked it? Tom taught me to run from a young age. What colour scarf should I wear today, do you think? Red, purple, blue- Green… Tom liked the colour green and I'm pretty fond of it myself.

There had always been a hint, just a whiff, of intimate familiarity and endearment to Hemlock's inflection when she spoke about the man, leading Alana to come to the conclusion that, not being a teacher, Tom had been a guardian of hers, at some time, in some way. Perhaps a kindly neighbour of Petunia's and Vernon's who had taken Hemlock under wing when Alana, herself, had been distastefully ignorant of her very life. Hemlock even went as far as carrying a souvenir of his, a gift, that stick, in her hair. Still, confusion edged with a condensing sort of dread slinked into Alana's gut at the mention of him, especially being brought up in this context, to someone like Abigail.

"My parents were murdered when I was a year old. I was nearly killed too. They were slain in their own home by a rather… Inventive and determined psychopath called Voldemort. Now he… He was an insane fucker. He got it into his head that me, a year-old baby, would one day kill him, and death, well, that was the one fear Voldemort had. So, he couldn't have that. He thought he would jump the gun before the gun fired and kill me first. Things went wrong, he obviously failed, but my parents paid the price that night and I was left on my aunt and uncle's doorstep with only this scar as a little memento. Alone, abused, with only my name. Just. Like. Tom."

To emphasize her point, Hemlock pushed back a few fallen onyx curls to show her unique scar to a doe-eyed Abigail. It was a jagged thing, thick, angry, splintering down her forehead like a lightning bolt, nearly splitting one of her thick, arching brows in two. Really, Alana should step in. She knew that. She should step in and put a stop to this, perhaps take Hemlock to a private place, just the two of them, and talk this out… Whatever this was. And yet, she didn't. This was the first time Harry had opened up fully. Truly. Taking her away now could lead to her slamming that iron gate back down, cementing it closed and Alana… Alana wanted to know. She needed to hear this.

"Voldemort wasn't finished there, though, oh, no. When I was eleven, he impersonated one of my school teachers, lured me into a basement, and then proceeded to try and bash my brains in with a stone. Every god-damned year, he would attack. When I was twelve, he tried snakes and poison, even going as far as trying to kill a friend of mine, just to show me he could."

But something was coming, she could feel it, like a Tsunami, the tremors just beginning to shake the ground she stood on and she was trapped. Trapped in a pit of trepidation and nerve-lighting anticipation. She should put a stop to this before the wave crashed. She needed to put a stop to this. Why wasn't she putting a stop to this?

"Fourteen: he abducted me and a friend from school, a kind boy, a lovely, friendly boy call Cedric Diggory. You know the kinds of people who won't hurt a fly? Who cry when they see an injured squirrel? That was good ol' Cedric. That time, Voldemort pinned me to a gravestone, his own gravestone from where he faked his death after killing my parents, and then slit my wrist and killed Cedric without batting an eye. I escaped with just plain luck. I had to carry Cedric's body back to his father, bleeding, half dead myself. I had to drop that body right at his father's distraught feet and look the man in the eye and now he's son was dead because he was standing next to me on the wrong bloody day."

Bile, hot, dense, bubbled up and seared Alana's throat as Hemlock's words painted a picture she would never, never, be able to scrub from her mind. Her niece… Her fourteen-year-old niece, alone, bleeding, heaving a corps-… It was to much and no matter how hard Alana fought to move, she simply couldn't. She was held transfixed, horrified and blinded, by the tapestry Harry was stitching too calmly.

"Fifteen: the government actually started to try and protect me, but it was too little too late. Voldemort and his followers had wormed their way into nearly every institution. He killed my godfather that year. He killed Sirius, my only remaining family, right in front of me. One minute, he was there, and I was reaching… Screaming and reaching and then… In a flash… He was gone. Dead. Oh… You should have heard how Bellatrix, Voldemort's most devout follower, cackled as he died and I cried."

Alana was going to be sick.

"Everyone around me started dying after that. Innocent people, MI5 agents, everyone. But he never could finish me off. That angered him. So, I was forced on the run. For months, I lived in a tent, hopping from one woods to another. Always moving. Always hungry. Always alone. Always angry and still, he couldn't catch me. So, he decided to take the one safe place I had left, the one place not tarnished by death or nightmares… My old school. He and his followers attacked, children… Children died, countless people, murdered… But I saw my chance and I faced him. He killed me then. I was dead for a good twenty minutes and yet, my little heart just wouldn't give up. Against the odds, It started beating again and Voldemort would not have another chance to take anyone else, to try and kill me. I killed him. You should have seen the look of surprise on his face when I sprang back to life. A sixteen-year-old girl, a supposedly dead girl, a child he believed would kill him and so, in trying to stop her from doing so, he created the very monster he so feared. I had beaten the one thing that terrified him. Death. I hated Voldemort. I loathed him. I burnt his body and I watched the ash fly away in the wind. I have never been as relieved and victorious as I was then."

It was one thing reading a file, a clinical, detached file, no matter how detailed it was, and to hear a person, her own flesh and blood, recount the tale in bits of fractured pieces. Somehow, it made it real. Something wet fell onto her cheek, sliding down to the tip of her chin and Alana belatedly realised she was crying. And still… She did nothing to stop this. Abigail shook her head, wincing when her neck bending tightened her wound.

"I don't understand. My father wasn't anything like that."

Hemlock chuckled and cocked her head.

"But he was like Tom Riddle, wasn't he? Tom was a different story. He was charming. Polite. He smiled and laughed and played games. Everybody loved Tom. He was there for me when no one else was. He taught me lessons on life no one was willing to teach me. He grew up, scared, alone, hurt, like I did. When I was twelve, we wrote letters to each other. I stopped writing back that year when I discovered-… But he kept sending those letters, kept… Talking to me."

The tsunami was shadowing them now, basting them in inky black, haunting them. Yet, Hemlock carried on.

"You see, that's how it goes. That's how they get into your head. That's the worst fucking part of all this, of everything. When everyone was against me, Tom was there. He became a part of me. He was a part of me. Tom was more of a father than my real one ever was. When someone says dad or father, I don't see James Potter, I see him."

Hemlock leant forward, invading Abigail's space, pressing, annexing, pervading.

"Your dad taught you how to hunt, didn't he? He taught you how to survive when times seemed dim? He made you laugh when you thought you couldn't laugh? He made you smile when you wanted to cry? He understood you. He was your friend, your grounding, your teacher and your family. He, your father, in his own twisted, sick way, loved you, didn't he? Didn't he?"

Abigail spluttered, breath catching in her throat and still, Alana did nothing.

"Yes. Voldemort killed Tom Riddle, didn't he?"

The wave crashed against them and up became down, foot became hand and breath was no where to be found. Not for Alana.

"No… I killed Tom Riddle. I burnt his body and I watched as my own father's ashes fluttered away in the wind… I have never been as heartbroken… As defeated and dead, as I was then. Funny, how things can turn sour so quickly, how victories can become defeats in a blink of an eye."

Finally, Alana's voice came to her, nothing but a broken thing, all twisted sinew and shattered bone with matted feathers.

"Harry?"

No. No. No, no, no, no, no! She wasn't… Hemlock isn't… Alana had it wrong. She had to. Hemlock didn't even glance her way, still hooked on Abigail and her slowly brightening eyes.

"You see, don't you?"

Abigail's next words felt like a punch to Alana's already soiled guts and intestines.

"Tom Riddle was Voldemort. They were the same person."

Harry slipped from the bed, cramming her hands into her jean pockets, but Alana saw. She saw them shake and spasm, she saw the slight wetness to Hemlock's eyes, she saw and heard the ragged breath quake through her as she nodded.

"Yes. So, trust me when I say you should be thankful someone else ended it before you had to. I didn't have a Will Graham to step in for me and now… Now I have Tom's blood on my hands."

That was it. That was the reason Hemlock had opened up in the first place, bared her sins, her wounds, her aching heart. She saw herself in Abigail. She saw herself, fresh from the fight from Voldemo-… From Tom Riddle. She saw what could have been for her. She saw the what-ifs, the could haves and the should have been's and she knew how much the other girl was hurting and in the only way she could, perhaps in the only way she knew how, by pointing out how much worse it could have been, she was trying to ease Abigail's pain.

The ice holding her still, the dread sticking her feet to the floor, melted away and Alana was in movement, sweeping towards her niece.

"Oh… Harry."

Hemlock jerked away, face turned towards the wall, hidden as she stormed for the door, yanking it open.

"I need air."

The door slammed shut and Alana's heart shattered.

Will's P.O.V

Will Graham was the next one out of the hospital an hour later, after taking Abigail for a quick walk and chat with Dr. Lecter around a little conservatory. After Hemlock's rather open and quite frankly, heartrending and melancholic conversation with Abigail, the girl had opened up to Dr. Lecter and Will, even wanting to spend more time with Hemlock, though, Alana had politely put that off by saying Hemlock needed some time for herself. In light of the situation, things had gone rather well, given what rather depressing beginnings they all had. It didn't take Will long to spot Hemlock once he stepped outside, given that she wasn't hiding very well, or hiding at all, really. She was sitting on a low wall, back to him, looking up at the dreary, clouded sky. He made his way over.

"Alana is just talking to Hannibal, she should be out soon."

At his cautious but friendly voice, she glanced over her shoulder to him, watching as he made his way around the wall to stop just shy of her side.

"So, what's your diagnosis? Completely fucked in the head or simply off my rocker?"

She smiled and joked, but Will saw the slight puff to her eyes, the tinge of red to white. Pushing the back of his legs into the wall, Will grasped the edge and pulled himself up, taking a seat next to her.

"Perhaps a bit of both, nothing much different then the rest of us."

His attempt at trying to ease her was poor even to his own hears and eyes. The thing was, Hemlock wasn't like the rest of them. She wasn't like anybody else he had ever seen before. She was something… Other. And that wasn't just due to her life and experiences. She housed an unmistakable sort of warmth to her, a fire, a lighthouse that seemed to shine and call to others, offering sanctuary and understanding. Yet, she could be subtly manipulative, coldly calculating, taunting even, given on what he had witnessed of her reaction and slide remark to Freddie Lounds and Abigail Hobbs. She could joke and laugh and brush off monumental emotional injuries, like she had just previously done, and yet, he had seen how she reacted when she thought others were in pain. Seeing Will, himself, insulted by Freddie, she had become viciously derisive, belaying her almost ominous threats as a joyful, friendly jab that were all too easy to look over.

She watched, observed, she soaked in other people like a sponge, and yet, she, herself, was closed off, guarded, isolated, never allowing anyone close until she had an alternative reason to do so, and normally, Will would guess, that reason wasn't for intimacy. No, she seemingly outrightly detested closeness by the way she had shied away from Alana and left in a sweep of bouncing curls and a slammed door. She was funny and light and playful and still, he saw that seeping wound in her, that darkness, that tiny hint of decay, and it only made her even more… Fascinating. Hemlock Potter was a bundle of contradictions dipped into a pool of starlight and dusted with a dash of decadent sin.

"I know it's wrong. I know what and who Tom was. I'm not delusional. He slaughtered, maimed, tortured, killed… He took my parents from me. He tried to take my family. He would have killed Alana if he knew she existed. He killed countless friends of mine. Tom Riddle was a monster."

Will licked his lips and pushed his glasses up his nose further.

"And yet, you still cared for him, in some way. You still saw a tiny slither of yourself in him. Perhaps he saw the same in you, and that is why, really, against all logical reasoning, he came after you time and time again."

From what Will had read from her file, from what Harry had just told, from what he… Felt, Tom Riddle had latched onto Harry for more reasons than simply believing she would end up killing him. Tom had plenty of chances to kill her, to finish what he started, quick ways, simple ways, and yet, he seemingly always gave her a chance to get out of them, to out do him, to out smart him. It made Will wonder, seriously consider, whether this Tom Riddle was truly trying to kill her as an end result, or whether, subconsciously, he had been testing her, trying to create someone in his mirror image. To create an heir. To have a daughter. In the end, Will didn't think Harry was alone in thinking of Tom like a parent. As sick as that possibility was.

"What? To kill the newer monster before it can take over from the old one? Maybe."

Will shook his head.

"No. Perhaps he saw the good in you that he never got to have and in so, tried to take it for himself. You are not a monster for caring, Hemlock."

He saw her knuckles bleed to white as her grip on the edge of the wall became strangling tight.

"Then why do I feel like one?"

Will bit his lip and nervously patted at his cargo pants. Perhaps today was not only a day for Hemlock to open up, but for himself to do so too.

"He got into your head, didn't he? I know what that's like. To have them there, in the shadows, pulling your strings, haunting your dreams, whispering in your ear so lowly, you don't know whether it's their voice or the wind."

She understood straightaway, like he knew she would.

"Garret Jacob Hobbs?"

Will nodded. It was nice, having someone who knew what it felt like. Who knew what it was like to lose a part of yourself to something, someone, darker. To be chipped and replaced by a piece of them. Understanding, for people like them, for Hemlock and Will, was hard to come by.

"You are not Tom Riddle. Nor will you become him."

Her breath stuttered.

"I miss him."

It must have been the first time she'd allowed herself to admit that, perhaps both mentally and verbally, by the way the words catched in her throat and nearly suffocated her. No doubt, if she told people back home, people who knew both her and Tom, with their own emotional trauma linked to Voldemort and what he had done, they would have burnt her at the stake. No one likes the person who sympathizes with the devil. Will knew that better than anyone.

"And that's completely fine."

Harry arched a brow and eyed him wearily.

"Really?"

Will shrugged and turned to look out at the car park splaying out before them.

"Yes. Just like it's okay for Abigail to miss her father. Emotions are more complex than black and white. You can love and hate. Praise and condemn. Miss a person and be so totally relieved that they are gone."

For a while, they simply looked out at the horizon, before Harry broke the peace. Will was coming to find out Hemlock was good at that.

"She'll forgive you, you know?"

Will Frowned and his eyes darted back to hers, looking at her nose.

"Who?"

Her feet began to swing in tandem, one and then the other, like a pendulum or a ticking clock. Left, right, left, right, left, right. It was calming, in a way.

"Abigail. She's angry at the moment. She's lashing out. She doesn't blame you for her father's death… Not really. She just needs to let her anger out and, well, you're an easy target."

Will laughed and ran a hand through his shaggy hair.

"I thought I was meant to be the empathic one?"

Hemlock shot him a smile, but her eyes drifted upwards once more, eyeing the clouds overhead with a peaceful glaze to her face. A strange urge struck him then. For a brief second, he wanted to snap a photo. Just one. And keep it close. He batted that urge away as soon as it came. He wasn't normally one given to inappropriate impulses, especially to young teenagers.

"Ah, but I can map out behaviour, remember? Abigail's behaviour is bloody translucent. If she's going to survive in this world, with what is to come, she's going to have to start masking those behavioural patterns of hers. Her half arsed attempt at emotional degradation and manipulation to get a rise out of me would have made Tom howl in laughter. She's shite at manipulation, but, given her doe-eyed look and little trembling mouse-like voice, if properly executed, she would be good at garnering a sympathetic ear and well, sympathetic people are less likely to dig into someone's motives."

Why would Hemlock want Abigail Hobbs to become more diligent in emotional subterfuge? Unless…

"You believe she helped her father."

Furthermore, Harry was thinking of ways Abigail could use to hide that conclusion. Harry's gaze snapped towards him and her voice became frosty and slippery, like melting snow.

"It doesn't matter what I believe."

Will's mind started churning.

"Jack Crawford sees that possibility already and he will want to explore that conclusion. If you believe-"

Harry cut him off.

"What does it matter? If she helped her father, or not, what is done is done. Nothing is going to bring the victims back. Nothing and no one will ease the pain of the families, even if they have a live person to blame. If she didn't help, she's an innocent girl who will come to face a lot of backlash for something she had nothing to do with. If she did, then it was under duress, wasn't she? She was under thumb of a psychotic man, her father, who she loved dearly… Like me. Is locking a person up for that justice?"

Will chose his words carefully.

"You never answered the question. Do you think Abigail helped her father?"

Her feet picked up speed in their swing. Movement. She was always in movement. Never still. He saw her as that comet again, hurling across the sky, opening a path of light through the night.

"As I said, my opinion means nothing… Especially now. Any opinion I give now will be linked back to my own trauma and labelled as personally muddled. In court or anywhere, my testimony will be struck off as subjective and a conflict of interest. If I was brought in as a witness on a stand, should Abigail face charges, even the most idiotic defendant could and would shred any and all testimony I give after what just happened back in that room."

It all clicked into place. Hemlock outwardly coming forth with her normally guarded feelings, opening up about her past personally, randomly bringing to light what she, herself, perceived to be her biggest sin, her connection and relationship to Tom Riddle, well… It hadn't been so random after all, and not only used to comfort Abigail. She had planned it all out. She had saw the file, knew Abigail Hobbs's case, knew Crawford, Alana, Hannibal, even himself, knew exactly what they would think, feel and act with Abigail… She had saw their behavioural patterns, all of them, and she had jumped ten steps ahead of them before any of them had even reached the hospital.

Hemlock had rightly guessed Crawford would be sceptical of Abigail. She also knew he would likely send psychiatrists he trusted, Hannibal and Alana, to talk with the girl. Once that failed, she knew he would bring in her and Will. She also knew Crawford would try and set them onto convicting her or finding a lick of guilt.

By outing herself, by letting people like Hannibal and Alana witness it, who by medical oath and moral standards, would tell Jack Crawford that Harry was not able to subjectively look at Abigail without seeing herself or her own trauma, Harry had systematically eliminated herself from being used against Abigail and so, had blocked a well needed path Crawford would need to explore to gain any sort of guilt on Abigail. With Will already so close and personally involved with Abigail, having killed her father, that left both her and Will out of the equation on how to trap Abigail. She was smart. Lethal. She had played them all like a game of chess and not once, never, did she have to lie. The funniest thing about this was Crawford had not even moved a piece yet and had no idea Hemlock had already check-mate'd him.

"Why do this?"

In short time, Harry chose her next words diligently, carefully, almost jealously.

"Perhaps Tom saw himself in me, there's no way to really tell now seen as he's dead. But, as you said, I am not Tom Riddle. I won't destroy something because I see a reflection of myself in it."

There it was. Tom saw himself in Hemlock, saw the light he didn't get to have, and Hemlock saw the life, the ending, she never got to have with Tom in Abigail. Reflections hidden in reflections.

"You see yourself in Abigail…"

Once again, she wouldn't outrightly say whether she did or didn't and finally, Will clued in to her real motives. She wasn't only protecting Abigail, should it turn out that she did help her father, but she was also trying to protect him.

If she outrightly said she thought Abigail had aided her father, to Will, he would be morally obligated to inform Jack Crawford. A moral call he wouldn't be able to ignore. However, Will had his own emotional ties to Abigail, he had orphaned the girl, he had some form of responsibility to her, could he really cast doubt on her when Abigail was so fragile herself? No, he didn't think he could.

Nonetheless, Crawford was smart. He would find out. He already had his suspicions on Abigail Hobbs involvement in the Minnesota Shrike cases and should he discover Hemlock had told Will of her own misgivings, which he would find out, Jack was good at sniffing out secrets, Will would be as culpable as Hemlock for not voicing those concerns to Crawford. If things went good, they could get a slap on the wrists, unlikely, but if things turned sour, which is what Hemlock likely believed they would do, then they would both be done for perverting the path of justice.

In not giving Will a definitive answer to his question, she was guarding him from that outcome, and yet again, placing herself into that line of fire. No, she wasn't ten steps ahead, she was thirty. She also had an ungodly sized Martyrdom complex. Something Will would have to try and teach her to curve.

"There's a young woman back there, in that room. She's alone. She's scared. She's backed into a corner. She's going to have plenty of people come after her, looking for blood to be paid, blood that isn't rightfully hers to pay. I know what that feels like. She needs help. I'm not about to turn my back on that, innocent or not… Are you, Will?"

The problem was, Will had seen her plan, slower, but he had saw it and now knew what she was up to. By the gleam in her eye, the heavy question she asked, she knew he had figured it out too. Still, without verbal admittance, Will was left in the clear in the eyes of the court. Could he turn his back on Abigail? If she had helped her father, a conclusion Will still wasn't quite ready to come to despite Hemlock's obvious planning around and for it, could he turn his back? Throw her to Crawford? To a life behind bars?

"No."

Hemlock locked eyes with him.

"Do you still think I'm not Tom now?"

Hemlock knew Will saw her true actions, saw her own well-planned manipulation, orchestration and execution of events in the hospital. In so, she believed he saw her as Tom. He could see it in her eyes, the reluctant acceptance, the bearing pain, because that was how she saw herself. She saw behaviour and she matched them together. Will, however, saw in shades of emotion. Her motives were opposite, she wished to protect, not destroy. Her emotions came from a warm place, not cold. She couldn't be further away from Tom if she tried.

In answer, Will reached a hand out, settled it over her own, skin against skin, and held.

"I see Hemlock Potter. No one else. Nothing else."

Her hand shook underneath his as she slowly turned the limb around, threaded her fingers through his and squeezed tightly.

Alana's P.O.V

Abigail was back in her room, settled and sleeping, after going for a walk and a chat with Hannibal and Will. Alana had excused herself to get a cup of coffee from the cafeteria, after asking for a quick word with Hannibal, privately, before they all set out. It didn't take long for the Dr to catch up with her, and even less time for Alana to butt straight into the crux of the situation.

"You knew, didn't you? You knew and you didn't say a thing."

Alana asked none too politely as she and Hannibal disembarked from the cafeteria in the back of the hospital, heading for the central car part out front.

"I had a suspicion that Voldemort's and Hemlock's connection was more complicated, yes."

Her grip around her steaming travel mug tightened as she tried to valiantly even her breathing out. In, and out, timed to the click of her steps. In, out. Simple. Calm.

"And you didn't tell me? You didn't give me a heads up? This is why you brought her here today, wasn't it? You knew something in Abigail would crack through to Harry and have her break."

She couldn't look at him. She could barely speak. She was feeling so much. Guilt, regret, anger, confusion, they all became muddled together, a swarming, wriggling heap of bitterness.

"Break? No, Alana. That was not Hemlock breaking. You know her better than me, do you not?"

Perhaps not if Hannibal had seen this before she had.

"She does not open up easily, and from what I have witnessed, not without a prominent ulterior motive to push her to do so. The first step to recovery of any trauma is admittance of its existence in its entirety. To heal from the wounds Tom Riddle has inflicted upon her, she must admit, to herself, the true extent of them and their complete truthfulness. Now that she has acknowledged her own emotional ties towards Tom Riddle and his memory, she can truly begin to move on from them."

Emotional ties. She shouldn't have any ties, nothing, linking her to that… That monster. Before Alana could refute, rebut or argue any of Hannibal's points, he was marching forward steadily.

"She is a brilliant young woman. Strong too. Stronger than many people give her credit for. It is time for people to start seeing Hemlock Potter for who she is, and not what she has lived through."

Alana grimaced. Was that what she had been doing? Seeing ghosts? How could she not see her sister, think of Lily, when looking into those startling green eyes? How could she not think of hurt and loss and death when she caught a glimpse of Hemlock's scars? Hemlock was a smart girl, surely, she had picked up on that and in so, had been reminded of her own past through Alana's reactions. She wondered what it was like, to have someone look upon you and never really see you, only to see phantoms. It wasn't a pleasant thought and Hemlock's reluctance to truly open up prior to today made a bit more sense to a frazzled Alana. Yet, Hannibal wasn't finished.

"Abigail Hobbs wishes to return home."

Why was he bringing up that now? Then it fell into place. Hannibal wanted Hemlock to accompany Abigail to her home. Not only was that a highly dangerous move for Abigail, it was dangerous for her niece. Alana scoffed.

"No. That's-… No. Not only could that be detrimental to Abigail's own recovery, Hemlock's obvious participation could lead to her own traumatic disassociation. It's too soon."

Hannibal didn't miss a beat.

"Hemlock sees herself in Abigail Hobbs. Perhaps in her assistance and witnessing of Abigail's recovery process may prove helpful in her own. Jack Crawford will wish for Abigail to return home, we both know this, in case she can lead to any clues or hints to where the rest of her fathers' victims reside. He will also push for Hemlock and Will to be participants in this endeavour, should they be able to see something none of us can."

Disorderly. That's what Alana felt. Everything felt like it was slipping from her control and, quite frankly, Alana was neither used to the feeling nor did she particularly enjoy it.

"As her guardian, if I explicitly deny Crawford's offer, then there is nothing he can do."

Hannibal's steps besides her stopped, leading Alana to putter off to a halt herself, turning to face the tall man.

"As Hemlock's guardian, would you really put your own comfort ahead of her recovery?"

It felt like a slap around the face.

"My comfort? This has nothing to do with my comfort!"

Hannibal began walking again with his long, sure stride, leaving Alana to trail after him.

"Doesn't it? You see Hemlock as fragile because your own views upon the experiences of your niece have left yourself feeling fragile. That is why you are trying to keep her away from this, from any sort of reminder, not because it might effect her, but because it is effecting you. However, neither you or Hemlock can hide from facing these experiences if your niece is to ever fully heal from her trauma."

Was she projecting onto Harry? When she looked at Hemlock, all she saw was a child, a hurt, abused child, but really, Hemlock had been through too much to be a simple child anymore. Maybe she never had been one. She never got the chance. And that's what worried Alana so. She deserved freedom. She deserved happiness. She deserved to relax and simply live as she should, as a normal sixteen-year-old girl. However, perhaps that was what Alana needed to see, for her own wellbeing, and not what Hemlock, her Harry, actually needed. Perhaps Alana was hiding, trying to shy away from really facing what a member of her family had been through, what she had missed. In her guilt of not being there, Alana was over-reaching her presence. Imposing. Implanting her idea of a suitable life onto a girl who, very clearly, had other wishes and wants. Why would she agree to help on a case with Will Graham, why would she agree to come here today, otherwise?

The bite of the wind stung Alana's cheeks as they made it outside. Almost immediately, her eyes found Hemlock, with Will, sitting on a small wall circling the parking lot, waiting. The sight was unexpected, but pleasant. Hemlock was gesturing something wildly with her hands, her feet swinging, speaking a mile a minute though Alana was too far away to hear a word of it. However, she saw Will laugh and shake his head as he answered, she saw Hemlock join in with the laughter. It was then that Alana realised, through the half smiles Hemlock had offered her so far, this was truly the first time she had seen her happy since her arrival.

"Your niece is no longer alone. However, neither can she solely rely on you. Now, more then ever, she needs a strong support network around her. She has found the beginnings of that network in Will, you, Abigail, and perhaps, me… She has accepted further Therapy sessions."

Alana frowned and glanced up to Hannibal. She hadn't expected that. Harry had seemed so set against it that Alana had been surprised Harry had even gone to one this morning.

"She has?"

Hannibal inclined his head.

"She is stronger than she looks and more independent than most, likely due to the sort of life she has led. She will heal in her own way. To stop her from doing could be disastrous. Abigail Hobbs has proven to be a choice of Hemlock's recuperation that she has chosen herself. To begin to deny Hemlock her own choices would only damage your own bonds with her, as she would likely see it as condescending and patronizing that, after all she has been through, you do not trust her enough to see what is best for herself. She will only isolate herself more than she already has. Her approval of further therapy sessions has already demonstrated that she knows what she needs to do to begin to heal… Alana, believe in your niece."

Alana's eyes slipped closed and she found herself muttering to the dark void of her eyelids.

"I do believe in niece… I just don't trust she knows exactly what she will be facing if she follows Hobbs back to her home. I don't trust that she's ready to face her own demons quite yet."

Her eyes opened once more and the first thing she saw was that bone white stick in Hemlock's hair. Taunting her. Tom Riddle, Voldemort, that was his. Hemlock had been carrying around a piece of him all this time. Alana felt viscerally sick at the very sight of that damned stick and the thought of what it could mean for and to her niece. That thing belonged to the man who killed her sister, who nearly killed her niece, who Hemlock admitted she, relatively speaking, saw as her father. The thought was vile. Repugnant. What had that monster done to her niece? What else was she hiding? How deep had he gotten into her head to have her think of him as such…?

And what right did Alana have to judge? She had not been there. She had not witnessed, and she was projecting again. Hannibal was right. She needed to stop that. For Hemlock. And obviously, she couldn't be objective enough on the topic of Hemlock to see things as clearly as she wished to. Hannibal gently grasped onto her shoulder, slowly swinging Alana around to face him.

"Then trust me. I will look after Hemlock. You do trust me, don't you Alana?"

But, perhaps, Hannibal could be objective. Alana trusted Hannibal. Almost inconceivably so. Her shoulders sagged as her defenses dropped. From the corner of her eye, she saw Will and Harry laughing once more.

"Of course I trust you. Just… Keep an eye her, please."

Hannibal smiled, nodded, dropped his hand and the two began to walk towards Will and Harry.

"My gaze will not wonder even for a moment Alana. You have my word."

YAAAS! Or NAAAH! ?

QUICK QUESTION: Do we like these longer chapters, or should I go back to shorter ones?

I know this chapter was more dialogue heavy than descriptive, but it's just how this one turned out. I think it works well for this segment of the story, especially seen as we are currently outside of Harry's head were most of the inner monologuing and conscious streams of lucidity happens, and we only took a quick dive into Will's this chapter.

THANK YOU, to everyone who has followed and favourited, I hope you liked this chapter, and a huge cyber hug to everyone who reviewed, you input really does keep me coming back to this fic and working on it, thinking up new lines, plots, relationships! I really can't thank you all enough for all your kind words!

As always, have a thought? Opinion? Question? Drop a review. They keep the pen scribbling away ;)