CHAPTER FOUR: PUMPKIN JUICE PART TWO:

48 hours ago...

Hemlock's P.O.V

Hemlock Potter couldn't look away. She was rooted to the spot, fixed in time to that particular moment, existing and non-existent simultaneously. Like Schroedinger's cat, she was both boxed into this instant, absolutely transfixed, and scattered across her past, present and future, and the endless variants of choices not taken. There, on the hallway wall of the Hobbs residence, mounted in a set of three, were deer heads. The right one was a stag, antlers proud and finely curved. The left mahogany plaque housed the doe, nose elegantly sloping and ears perked up in sleety alarm. In the middle, down a level, was the fawn, its large black eyes too big for its skull, its ginger coat still mottled with milk white splodges. The problem came when Harry blinked.

The proud twist of James Potters chin was overlaid by the film over his cold, dead eyes. The alarming gape of her mothers mouth was rotten, blood still leaking from a silenced scream. Her own head was smiling, peaceful almost, as maggots squirmed and inched through carved flesh. For, in a blink, it wasn't just deer heads, trophies, hung up on white washed wall. It was her, Hemlock, enclosed by the horrifying image of her dead parents, decapitated, gutted, still bleeding and weeping and… Another blink, and the image was gone.

They're just deer head. Just deer heads. Deer heads.

But that was the kicker, wasn't it? They weren't just deer heads. Not to Hemlock. The irony of this picture wasn't, and couldn't, be lost on Harry. The stag was her family emblem. Once upon a time, just like this small herd of deer, she and her parents had been tracked, hunted, shot, and, eventually, mounted on a mad man's wall. Once upon a time, finally, Harry in turn had tracked, hunted, shot that mad man, her Tom, and in her hair, threaded through bun, she had taken her own trophy. His wand. Scavenged from the remnants of an abattoir masquerading as a battlefield, pried from stiff finger, snatched. Stolen. Just like Tom had taken her sanity. So, who had been the hunter and the prey, in the end? Who had created who? Like Schroedinger's cat, perhaps it was both and neither.

Did it even matter any more? Not really. Tom was gone, and here she was, and there were no victors or victims in their sorry little tale. Just death, deer heads, declivity and disillusion. Still, the deer heads were an… Unpleasant reminder of Harry's sordid past, and if she was alone in the house, if there had been no witnesses, she would have burnt the whole building down. Perhaps she may have left Abigail Hobbs inside as she did so. Merlin knew she deserved it. Alana too, if the mood struck. Maybe she would have fetched Crawford and chucked him into the bonfire as well. Molly. Hermione. Draco. Ron. All of them. The more the merrier, they say. Maybe, just maybe, she would have burned the whole world down.

"Are you alright, Hemlock?"

But Harry wasn't alone. She was being watched, observed, studied like a fuckin' feral animal and, right now, she couldn't afford to slip. Straightening her shoulders, she shot a grin, keen, up at doctor Lecter's impressive height.

"Hell is empty. All the devils are here."

Doctor Lecter grinned back at her, and it was as sharp as her own smile. It had become a sort of game between them, a little back and forth banter. Upon greeting, either one of them would quote something, just a line, a snippet, and the other would guess or place the quote. Today was her turn. Hemlock, as begrudgingly as she was to admit it, quite liked their version of saying hello. It was less mundane. Dull. Merlin, she hated things, and people, when they proved to be boring. Doctor Lecter, reluctantly, was proving to be anything but tedious.

Still, she also knew what the good doc was doing. Harry didn't open up, at all, really, no matter how many sessions they had, and Lecter had found more… Creative ways to come and understand Hemlock. Even this, as harmless as it seemed, gave something away. Only her taste in literature, but still, it was something, a glimpse, just one, into her mind. Nevertheless, it was a two way street, and Harry, in turn, got a little flash of the doctor's tastes too. She thought it was a fair deal.

Yet again, there wasn't a crease in sight, a hair out of place, a button undone on doctor Lecter, and, idly, Harry had the urge to push him into a puddle of mud. Or blood. Or ash. She couldn't quite decide on which one. She just wanted to see him dirty, haggard, unclean. She didn't like pure, tidy things. They were often a lie. Mockeries dunked in irony.

"The Tempest, if I am not mistaken."

You see, right there! His voice was pleasant, charming some would say, with his Lithuanian accent thick and rolling like the Scottish hills Harry had called home for a time. Hemlock heard it all the same. In the twist of his vowels, in the dip of the highland caverns, there skulked Tom. Oh, he was hiding something. They all were at the end of the day. Every single, god damned one of them. Will. Alana. Abigail. Crawford. Lecter. Herself. The woman she passed on the street. Even the raccoon scavenging from the Hobbs's bin. Everyone had a secret. Ne plus ultra was a fantasy. But what was doctor Lecter's secret?

Will was his slow decay from his astounding mind, his own haunting of his vivid imagination. Alana tried to hide her imperfections and misgivings behind a strong sense of control. Abigail had played bait for her father, and had gotten lost in the role of playing innocuous victim. Crawford was battling with his conscience, and how far he would go for the 'greater good'. Those secrets, their demon's, Harry had picked up on quickly. But when she looked at doctor Lecter, really looked… Nothing. Blank. Fuck all.

"We both know you're not, Doc. I guess you hardly ever are, are you?"

Hemlock Potter couldn't get a solid read on doctor Lecter, and it unsettled the absolute shit out of her. She could hazard a very weak guess on what he wanted. She could, perhaps, round about say what he would or wouldn't do in a certain situation, and maybe, if the timing was just right, caught in the in between, she knew what he would say, but that was it. And, even worse, Harry would admit, she sort of… Liked it. Far too much, at least.

Doctor Lecter was an enigma wrapped in riddles, dipped in poetry and dusted with contradictions. He was… Interesting. Just when Harry thought she had pinned him down, figured the big bastard out, he took a sharp turn and she was back to square one. It was frustrating. Terrifying. Exhilarating.

"All that glitters is not gold."

Harry chuckled.

"The Merchant of Venice. I guess we're both feeling a bit tragic today. Or is it comedic? One of the two. The latter, I suspect."

Doctor Lecter hummed.

"It would be inappropriate to feel anything but tragedy in this situation, given the circumstances."

Ah, yes. Here they were, walking Abigail Hobbs about her own home, prying for information, prodding and heckling, and eight girls were dead. Abigail, so far, was giving a good show, Harry would give her that much. Her tears could use some work, she wasn't getting the eyes puffy enough, so could the little flares of indignation she gave when she felt she was being slighted, she was meant to be grieving, but, over all, a C-. Passing, but could do better. Anew, Harry chuckled. Hopefully, Harry could bump that up to at least a B before Crawford got his hands on her.

"If you can't see the comedy in tragedy, then what is the point in life?"

Doctor Lecter patted her shoulder amicably. His hand lingered a moment too long. In a blink, his head had joined Lily's, James and her own on the wall.

"What indeed? Now, Alana has told me you have not been sleeping over the last few nights. Is this true?"

Harry rolled her jaw until it nearly cracked.

"Sometimes I sneeze and my eyes close. Does that count?"

What was she doing here? None of this, these Alana's, Lecter's, Abigail's and Crawford's, had been a part of her plan. Her plan had been simple. Easy. Boring. Come to Baltimore. Keep her head down. Wait out five months. Leave. Finished. Instead, she was knee deep in homicides, schemes, nightmares and Tom's voice was shouting in her ear, screaming, yelling, see, see, see, see…

See what? That she was, quite possibly, going fucking insane? Yes, she already had the memo on that one. To see that she should leave? Yes, she knew that too! But she couldn't… She couldn't. For one reason. One name. One bloody person. Will Graham.

Harry didn't want to like Will Graham. In fact, she wanted to hate him. Everything would be easier if she could hate him. He was infuriatingly twitchy, aggravatingly soft and irritatingly gentle, annoyingly optimistic, everything Hemlock wasn't, and she should hate him for it, detest it all. Sometimes, when she was around him, he felt like sand paper, rough and unforgiving, chaffing across her skin, rubbing her raw, setting her nerves on fire, cracking her armour, wearing her down swipe by bloody swipe. And he was broken. Completely broken. A porcelain doll with it's face caved in, cracked like a spider web. Broken in such a tragic, beautiful way.

Broken like her.

Will had been right that day, in the car parking lot of the hospital. Harry, as small as it was, saw a tiny slither of herself in someone, and, like Will said, she didn't want to destroy it. She wasn't Tom. She saw herself, barely passed six, knobbly kneed and bruised, beaten, scarred, alone and scared, but still with that naive hope of a better future the younger her had frailly clasped onto for dear life. Once upon a time, that hope had been all she had. Sometimes Harry wanted to hug that kid, press it so tightly into her chest that its face would forever leave an indent in her ribcage. She wanted to stroke its hair and kiss its head and tell it to come back to her. Please, come back. Other days, Harry wanted to wrap her hands around its throat and squeeze until the kicking stopped. That kid had been weak, stupid, manipulated, slow. Tragedy and comedy.

The thing was, Harry didn't see that kid, a part of herself long thought dead, in Abigail. She saw it in Will. In his optimism. In his warmth. In his Hope. A chip of her innocence, innocence that had been snatched from her by Tom, was mirrored in Will's own hope. Will really believed Abigail was guiltless. He hoped she wasn't like her father. So, Harry would keep that lie alive. For Will, and, perhaps, for herself too. For the memory of the child she never got to be. Harry may never get to once again feel or taste that child like innocence and hope again, her time of purity was gone, but some small reincarnated fleck of it could find freedom if Will's hope still lived. Unfortunately, the only way to keep Will's hope alive was to keep Abigail innocent. Keeping Abigail Hobbs innocent meant Harry had to go back, back to the darkness, the grim places, where nightmares floated and Tom lurked and everything hurt.

"Unfortunately for us all, that does not count, Hemlock. What is bothering you?"

When Harry was… tracing someone, mapping doctor Lecter called it, she felt like she was plunging her head into a vat of boiling thick black oil, her skin slogging off as she broke for air, piece by tattered piece, leaving nothing but charred bones, their face being stitched over the pitted ruin that was her skull with barb wired thread. Tom's skin suit had felt like it was made from shards of glass spritzed with industrial bleach. The mushroom killer had felt loamy, springy, but with the sting of a wasp in the eye. Bellatrix had felt like a million stars, tiny, exploding over the surface of her skin, setting her on fire with cold, frigid heat. Fenrir felt like a crown of fangs embedding into her skull, martyring her. Thorfinn Rowle felt like the arctic ocean, salty with shackles of seaweed. Dolohov felt like the very precipice of a knife, slowly being sunk into pupil.

"As I said, Doc. Hell is empty..."

All the devils were here, and Harry was wearing their many, so many, grotesque faces.

"Then we have plenty of work to do. Shall we begin?"

Harry nodded. In the end, their faces felt better than her own. Hollow. Pyrrhic. Shadows hiding in the dead of the night. Smoke. Harry felt like smoke, fog, and you couldn't hold onto smoke. And so, as doctor Lecter began to walk into the kitchen where muted voices were muffled by brick wall, Harry dutifully followed him. She needed to find another face to stop her own from escaping.

Hannibal Lecter's P.O.V

"Hemlock?"

Hannibal asked hesitantly as he stepped out the front door of the Hobbs residency, gently shutting the door behind him. Hemlock was just down from the patio, pacing, seven steps right, twirl, seven steps left, twirl, repeat. Hannibal cocked his head to the side. Hemlock had a predisposition towards that innocuous number. She used seven elastics in her hair. She tied her shoes seven times until the bow on her timberlands was nothing but a ball resembling the Gordian knot. She even knocked on doors in a bout of seven. On the surface, it could have been a small case of OCD. The pattern fit. Nevertheless, like the girl herself, Hannibal would not take anything on her surface level as fact. Just as she wouldn't take his façade, as well crafted as it was, at face value.

Hannibal Lecter had always, since birth, had a remarkable sense of smell. Of course he did. It was one of his many indulgences. Hemlock Potter was beautiful, in a very chaotic, contorted way, Hannibal would readily admit. Thin boned, delicate, pale skin, hair as black as a ravens wing, aristocratic features of sharp sweeping lines, and eyes so vibrant they bordered on unnatural, Hannibal could understand the appeal if he, himself, was given to base reaction and emotions. But he wasn't. When he had first met Hemlock, it wasn't her appearance, her sad past, the tempting trauma, or her sardonic wit that had captured his initial attention. It had been her smell.

She smelled of honeysuckle, rain with the musky scent of smoke, and something sharp, unnamable, energetic, like a flash of lightning cracking across the night sky. If electricity, energy, had a smell, it would have been that tantalizing note Hemlock carried with her. If magic existed, Hannibal fancied this was what it would smell like. And it was that smell that had first drawn his eye. Her squalid history had only furthered that first glint of curiosity. Sixteen, survivor, fighter, orphan… Killer. So much trauma, so much pain, so much potential. She was a viable, walking, talking candy store.

Originally, after reading her file before she had strolled into Crawford's office, Hannibal had thought of pushing her, just enough, to see her break. He wondered who would be caught in the explosion of her self destruction. However, then he had witnessed Hemlock and Will together, and that was the true beauty. They had connected like two jigsaw puzzle pieces, clinking, and had bounced between one another, two live wires meeting in a vacuum, almost as one being instead of two. It was fascinating.

Nevertheless, it was her mind that had corked his curiosity into steadfast intrigue and held his attention. She was well educated, highly intelligent, versed in Latin, philosophy and literature. Yet, she down played her intelligence behind a sarcastic, almost scathing bite many around her took as dark humour. She swore like a sailor, dressed horrendously, had a dire taste in music, and had barely any patience for those she deemed 'dull'. She was nihilistic, pragmatic to the point of contention, and she prolificly played mind games with those around her. And she was good at it, whether she was conscious of what she was doing or not. She could find the artistry in the grotesque, and that was a skill often lacking in people. A skill she shared with Will Graham.

Hemlock Potter, like Will Graham, had the potential to become something more, and it was that potential Hannibal favoured to work with. Hannibal simply wanted to see what that more was, if it could be something remotely like himself, reflections in reflections, or something knew and unseen. However, trying to mould Hemlock was proving… Difficult. Hemlock was an enigma wrapped in riddles, dipped in poetry and dusted with contradictions. She was… Riveting. And entirely too aware for her own good.

Hemlock and Will, on some higher level, had connected unlike anything Hannibal had witnessed before. It was this connection that was Hannibal's in. As antisocial and combative as Hemlock was, she liked Will Graham, as much as she obviously didn't want to, and Will, as isolated and fractured as he was, had found some form of companionship, equality and understanding in Hemlock. Reel one in, and the other would follow. They wouldn't be able to help it.

Withal, without testing this potential, Hannibal was unsure of the ability it could transform into, and so, he had taken to more, let's call it, creative endeavours. His 'copycat' killing on Cassie Boyle had tested Will, and as Hannibal watched Will reconstruct the meaning behind the kill, Hannibal had found his potentiality to be workable. Will had come close to understanding, just shy of the truth, and it had been glorious to see. Hemlock, however, had not been present for such a task. Testing her had needed a softer hand. She did see so clearly, after all. It wouldn't do for her to spot him before he was ready to step forward.

"Will's in danger."

And that was the door to Hemlock's mind creaking open. Of course, using Abigail Hobbs to lure in Will and Hemlock had been a risky plan, but, evidentially, the right one. Will felt duty bound to Abigail, perhaps even parental, and if Hannibal got the young girl on side, Will would follow, and if Will followed, Hemlock would not be far behind. Dominoes falling one by one. Hannibal pulled away from the door, taking a few steps closer to the marching girl in front of him.

"Will is fine, I assure you-"

"You don't understand!"

She snapped, more to herself than to him, Hannibal thought, as she froze and began to frantically scrub at her face. It almost looked like she wanted to peel her own face off. Hannibal wished he could see inside her head, see what neurons were firing, where the connections were being made, the spark of that brilliant mind, so alike and so different to Will's and his own, blazing in all directions. Hannibal crossed the distance and gently clasped her shoulders.

"Then help me understand. I cannot help if I cannot understand."

Hemlock's hands fell away from her face like the burnt orange leaves of the dead trees around them. Her eyes were flickering, never coming to meet his own dark gaze, but Hannibal could see she was seeing something, connecting, mapping. Good. She really was smart, quick, precise. When she spoke, it was in a rush of words, a waterfall, blurring, fluid, words bleeding together into one undulating mass of rippling panic.

"I didn't know about the phone call. No one told me about the phone call! Merlin, I can feel him. He feels like rose petals doused in itching powder. No. Not itching powder. Bloody anthrax. Rose petals covered in anthrax. He feels like Tom and I can't get it off!"

Ah, so it had worked. Hemlock had not been present for the Minnesota Shrike case, she had came later, but with her involvement with Abigail Hobbs, Jack Crawford had produced a file for her to catch her up on the case. The man had given it to Hannibal to pass onto Hemlock on their journey over to Minnesota. It had only taken a quick flick through to find any references to the phone call placed to Garret Jacob Hobbs, and subsequently discard those papers, for Hannibal to test the waters. When Hemlock had read the file in the car, going over the details, she was none the wiser that there had been any connection between the copycat killing and Garret beyond the similarities of their murders. That is, before Will had begun to question Abigail about the phone call.

"The attacks on you and your mother were different. They were desperate. Your dad knew he was out of time. Somebody told him we were coming."

Abigail wrapped her arms around her torso, gaze darting to counter top, a little landline sitting pretty by the window sill.

"The man on the phone?"

Hemlock's gaze zeroed in on Will.

"What man on the phone?"

It was ingenious of himself, if he did say so. To truly see how Hemlock worked, to see that mind turn over and connect, to test her potential, to see if she could actually understand him as what he truly was, Hannibal needed to see her working when she had the rug pulled from underneath her feet. It just so coincided that it was Jack Crawford who had given Hannibal the perfect opportunity to surprise Hemlock by selecting him to be the one to hand the file over. Once again, Hemlock was working overtime, trying to connect all those little hints and clues to get a picture.

"If there was a copycat who was simply acting out what he or she had seen from the paper or news sites, then Cassie Boyle's murder made sense in that obtuse sort of way. They were just going off sparse details. Apathetic mimicry. But if there was a phone call, if this copycat killer knew Garret Jacob Hobbs, knew him enough to warn him the police were coming..."

Hannibal fought back a smile, instead keeping his face as blank as a sheet of snow.

"Then they should have known enough details to create a better copy."

Hemlock was in movement again, seven, seven, seven, seven. Back and forth. Like the tide or a tornado, swept up and flying high.

"So, if they purposefully left details out, changed the modus operandi, they weren't copying at all. Not really. They were leaving a message. A message only a select few could read."

She violently shook her head.

"It wasn't meant for Garret Jacob Hobbs, no. If it was, it would have been the perfect copy. Who else would this killer try speaking to? Crawford? No. Crawford wouldn't be able to see the message. The Public? No. Too large of an audience for such a nuanced message. Who else? Who else? Who..."

Such a shrewd, astute mind. It really was beautiful to see it working. Especially when working on his own actions. Personal. Intimate. Unguarded. Exactly how Hannibal wanted it to be. Slowly, Hemlock turned to face him dead on.

"Will Graham. They… They were trying to speak to Will."

Hemlock folded her arms around herself, and the fingers lacing over her biceps tapped in patterns of seven.

"Then that makes the changes more important than the similarities. In his own way, this killer was trying to convey what Hobbs wasn't. By killing the Boyle girl as he did, coldly, calculatedly, meticulous with the detached sort of empathy of a butcher carving a pig, left in a tablaux for all the world to see, the exact opposite of Hobbes who adored his victims, cherished each part of them, then they were aiming Will in the right direction."

Just a little nudge.

"But why would the copycat do such a thing?"

Hemlock didn't need more than two seconds before she found her answer in a grimace.

"Because he's not a copycat at all. He's a fluent artist. Killing, in a way, is another language. Each killer has their own vowels and consonants, a specific way they dot their I's and cross their T's. This killer wasn't copying, he was mimicking a language Will had already partially translated. He was communicating. This… This was a hello… an I see you. We've ignored his greetings. And what do you do when someone doesn't hear you?"

Hemlock took a lone step closer, voice dropping to a hushed whisper.

"You shout louder."

Just a little bit farther. She could do it. Go on. Go on.

"Or, perhaps, he will walk away."

Hemlock laughed and waved a hand around her, flippant.

"Oh, no. This… This is a game to him."

Hannibal made sure to keep his frown in place, to twist his lips just enough to show disturb. Just… A… bit… Farther. She could do it. Hannibal knew she could. She was so close. So close. Just a few steps more.

"How can you be so sure?"

Hemlock's answering smile was a broken thing. Broken and beautiful.

"Because when I think of this killing, when I map their behaviour, now that I know everything was a ploy, the copycat had known all along… I see Tom."

The laughter that followed was just as damaged and splendid as the smile still staining her face like the blood spotting the patio beneath their feet.

"And Tom never walked away from a game."

Neither did Hannibal. Neither did Will. Neither did Hemlock herself. The temptation was too strong for people like them. The chase too enticing. Most would never understand the hunt, the adrenaline of a well matched mental battle, the urge to push until everything around you was broken. But they did. Will would continue to work for the FBI until his mind became scrambled and shattered because he, no matter how much he protested, could not see himself doing anything but exactly this. Hemlock would continue walking the murky paths she walked because the darkness was her home, where she had been raised and fed. Hannibal would continue to do what he did because, well, he enjoyed it all far too much. Still, Hemlock needed one more little nudge. She was close. So very, very close to understanding. So close to getting to the pit, to the one thing even Will had not picked up.

"Do you know why this killer would be trying to communicate with Will? Drawing unnecessary attention seems dangerous, far too much, for a simple greeting."

Hemlock scoffed.

"Boredom? Arrogance? If he was anything like Tom than-"

Hannibal could see the exact moment the thought struck her. In slow motion, he saw her blink, the smile dropping, chest expanding with a long, drawn in breath, eye opening to pin-pricked pupil which locked onto his own with a startling ferocity of emerald flame and jade light. Finally, she saw him. Tom Riddle was a curious character. His motive, unlike those given in his thick file, was not about power. Control. Immortality. Riddle had been in the process of trying to create something in his own image, something that could understand him. Riddle had not lived long enough to see his creation come to fruition, neither had he nurtured it enough to not have it turn around and bite him, but Hannibal was here, and Hannibal thought it magnificent.

"They're lonely. Like Tom, they're lonely. In some fundamental basic way, Will understands that. Or at least, he will. This killer sees that potential. He's lonely enough to risk it all for that understanding. That's what he wants. Understanding."

Hannibal's voice, soft, tugged Hemlock deeper into the pit of rose petals laced in anthrax.

"And what would this killer do next, if he is after such recognition?"

Now that Hemlock had the core of the situation in hand, she didn't miss a beat.

"One of two things. Either, they are rash enough to give up hope on this potential and stop while they are ahead, come after Will to tie up the lose end, or they will try to speak again. Either way, a body will be dropping soon. It's not going to be Wills. I won't let it."

Understanding. A simple construct and yet, like Hemlock, contrarily complex. Will understood Hemlock, Hemlock understood Will, and even if the two did not know it was him they were becoming quickly acquainted with, they were beginning to understand Hannibal too. How strange. Hannibal had been wrong. Watching Will and Hemlock snap off each other had not been true beauty. This, here, was true beauty. The connections finally solidifying.

Now, however, the ball was in Hemlock's court. How she handled this information, how she manoeuvred herself next, could be make or break. For her. For Will. For all of them. Hannibal thought, however, from seeing how she reacted to Abigail saying she didn't recognize the voice on the line, storming out here to process and map, smelling the lie a mile away, she would turn her attention to the young Hobbs. Hemlock wouldn't outrightly attack, but she would push. The smart thing to do would be to unbalance Abigail enough, capture enough trust, for Abigail to tell her who the caller was, and therefore, who the threat was. How Hemlock went about that was going to be captivating to see.

"You are a very smart woman Hemlock. Too smart, some would say. And if what you think is true, than this is dangerous, not just for Will, but for yourself too."

Hemlock frowned.

"Why?"

Hannibal's previously lax hand lifted towards her face, palm brushing cheek, fingertips delving into curly locks. Her skin was icy, from the little he had touched her, Hemlock was not one for physical contact, it seemingly always was. His thumb swiped at the thin, almost translucent skin under her eye, bruised a light purple from lack of sleep. Broken and beautiful.

"Because you too have the ability to see and understand."

The front door opened with a clang and Hemlock skittered away, shoving her own hands into her leather jacket pockets. Hannibal's own fell to his side. Alana's gaze jumped between the two, curious little frown tugging at the centre of her brows.

"Sorry, am I interrupting?"

Hemlock's answering smile was pristine, fresh, completely fake.

"No. I'm okay now. I just didn't sleep well last night. Back there, in the kitchen, I… Well, my brain got muddled. Hannibal… Hannibal helped calm me down."

Hannibal. Not Doctor. Not doctor Lecter. Not Doc. Hannibal. This time, Hannibal did smile. Alana's questioning gaze strayed to him and stayed and from the corner of his eye, he could see Hemlock cast a quick flash of a glance his way. She was wondering what he would do. Deny her lie, out her to Alana, or bluff.

"A minor panic attack, that is all. It was to be expected in such an environment. She is calm now."

Alana's shoulders sagged as she grinned. A crack of a branch from behind them startled Hemlock, as her neck snapped around to the direction of the noise, her gaze sweeping the tree line. They settled somewhere off to the right, a spot, from his position, Hannibal could not see. When Alana spoke, however, drawing back Hemlock's attention, her smile was sleek and piercing.

"Will and I are just taking Abigail in to sort through the evidence, if you two are up to it?"

Hemlock waved them both away.

"I'm alright, I just need to take a breather. Head back in, I'll come back shortly."

Hannibal walked towards the front door, Alana speaking as he passed her on the threshold.

"Don't wonder too far, and if you need me, or anything, just yell and I'll come. Okay?"

Hemlock didn't answer, but he guessed she nodded while his back was turned as Alana retreated back into the house with him. Right before the door closed, Hannibal caught sight of Hemlock heading over to the woods. She was already acting.

Good.

Nicholas Boyle's P.O.V

Nicholas Boyle wandered through the woods surrounding the Hobbs house with an unsteady step, the vodka and whiskey still heady in his blood. He didn't want to cause trouble, no, not really. He just wanted to see Abigail Hobbs's face, he needed to, he wanted to look her in the eye and see the truth for himself. Ever since that reporter, Freddie Lounds, had told him that Abigail had been released from the hospital, that she was home, going through her things, talking, living, like his dear sister should have been, Nicholas could not help but need to see it for himself.

It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. It wasn't just. It should have been his sister still here, amongst them, so much taken, his baby sister… No. He just wanted to look Abigail Hobbs in the eye and see if he could see that beast of a father mirrored back. They said father like son, didn't they? But what about daughters? Was there a passing of sin there? Was there? He needed to know. He needed it. Nicholas froze as the ruffling of leaves and dead twigs shuffled from behind him. Turning, vision slightly tilting from the alcohol he had tried to use to drown these sorrowful thoughts, he got a hold of himself just in time to see a young woman breaking through the under-shrub.

She was a young thing, black haired, pale, delicate looking and, when Nicholas blinked, he saw his sister all over again. Smiling, laughing, joking… Impaled on antlers like a hunting cabins trophy. Bile bubbled up his throat, stinging the back of his tongue until he tasted battery acid. When she looked up from the ground, Nicholas saw her green eyes, bright, puffy, red from the tears streaming down her face. She froze in place, half pushing back a low hanging branch, sniffling. Her voice was hoarse, dry, wrecked.

"So, you heard she's home?"

Nicholas swallowed down the sick.

"Who are you?"

The girl ducked and slunk closer through the trees.

"Jessie. My sister… My sister was..."

Nicholas cut the girl, Jessie, off. He wasn't sure whether it was because he couldn't stomach the thought of it, this horror, happening to more young girls, to his own sweet sister, or whether Jesse herself sounded so completely shattered by the omission, of the verbal reminder of what she, they had faced, their sisters had faced, that it was too hard to listen too. Did he look like Jesse? Red eyed, teary and bleached a heart-wrenching pallid? Was that, so broken, so hurt, so alone, what he, too, sounded like?

"My sister too."

The girl inclined her head and that was all there was to say. My sister too. So many sisters. So many daughters. So many friends and loved ones and… It hurt. It hurt too much. Vodka. He needed more vodka and he needed to look Abigail Hobbs in the eye.

"Did Freddie tell you too?"

Jessie frowned at his question, the shade of the trees hooding her eyes.

"Freddie Lounds?"

Nicholas nodded, but his gaze was pulled back to what stood behind him. The Hobbs house. So innocent looking. Beige brick, terracotta tile, jarring graffiti of harsh black lines sprawled across its face.

Cannibal.

Cassie had been ate-… She had been cooke-… Oh god. It was too much. It wasn't enough. He needed to know.

"She told me that the girl was back in town. Said it might bring me closure."

There was a certain bite in Jessie's tone when she spoke next, like a winter breeze. It was closer too, as she came to a stand beside him.

"Yeah, she told me the same."

Nicholas couldn't turn away from the graffiti, no matter how hard he tried. His sister. So sweet. So pure. So innocent. It wasn't right.

"I just want to see her face, you know? I want to look her in the eye and see if there's any remorse there. For what she did, she deserves to burn in hell. No. She deserves worse."

The winter breeze turned into an Arctic blast, filled with venom and anger and blistering hate, all smothered by Jessie's watery tears. Nicholas glanced over his shoulder, down to the short woman. She was sixteen, seventeen perhaps, only a few years younger than his own sister.

"What she did?"

Jessie took in a shuddering breath, using the sleeve of her leather jacket to harshly scrub at her tear stained cheeks, trying hard to hold it together.

"I'm sure you've heard what they're saying. Abigail Hobbs was the bait. My sister was too smart to wonder off with an unknown man. She was smart and beautiful and… She was deceived. Tricked. She had to have been. That bitch lured my sister out and she was cut up and.. I… I can't. I'm sorry."

Nicholas's sister had been smart. A straight A student. She was going to be valedictorian. Cassie was meant to go on to college, study medicine, become a doctor, perhaps get a boyfriend Nicholas would have approved of, settled down, had kids, he would have been an uncle and his sister-

But she was none of those things now, and she would never get the chance to be. His sister was in the morgue, in a cold metal chamber, stitched up, name tag around her toe, missing her lungs and liver, and everything had been taken. But Jessie was right.

Cassie had been smart. Too smart. She wouldn't have wandered off with some strange man old enough to be her father. Had she been tricked? Yes… Yes. She must have. And who better to trick her but an innocent looking girl around her age? Jessie pressed in tight from his side, her voice ghosting along the dimpling skin of his neck and ear.

"At least Hobbs is dead, you know? But what about her? What about Abigail? She's here, under police guard, playing with her things, living her life while my sister, while our sisters were brutalized. What kind of justice is that?"

Almost like an echo, Nicholas answered.

"No justice at all."

Perhaps the grief was getting to him. Perhaps he had drank too much. Perhaps the shadows were playing tricks on his mind, but Nicholas Boyle didn't feel right. He felt strange, compressed, weak. It felt like the air around him had turned fatty, thick, pressing into the thousands of pores in his suddenly frigid skin, fogging his mind, chugging his blood to a stand still. All that really made sense right then was Jessie and her voice, calling out from the fog, like a lighthouse leading him to land.

"Someone needs to teach Abigail Hobbs a lesson. She needs to learn that she can't get away with this. Someone needs to scare her as much as our sisters were scared right before her father tore them apart and ate them. Think of your sister, Nicholas, think of mine. So young. Little lambs. Abigail trapped them for her monster of a father. She lured them in with wide eyes and soft smiles. She's a wolf in sheep's wool. She's dangerous. You feel it too, Nicholas. You know you do. Abigail Hobbs needs to pay for what she's done."

The voice was right at his ear, like a lullaby, singing him further to sleep. But then it stopped, it all stopped, the cold wind, the feeling of the air closing in, suffocating, and the girl, Jessie was stepping back and suddenly Nicholas was back in his body, back in control.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean… My sister was so sweet. She would never have wanted me to feel or say… I can't do this. I'm not strong enough. I have to go."

Jessie stumbled away, tumbling towards where she had first appeared. Nicholas reached out for her.

"Wait!"

Jesse glanced over her shoulder to him, only half her face visible, and Nicholas was transfixed.

"I hope you are strong enough."

And then, as fast as she had come, Jessie was gone, devoured by trunk, brush and dense woods. Her voice, her words, the wind still lingered. Cassie had been sweet. She had been pure. She wouldn't have hurt a fly, and she was gone, and Abigail Hobbs was still here, and Jesse was right. Where was the justice in that? There was no justice. No answers. No closure. Nothing but pain and grief and anger.

From the way of the house, Nicholas heard talking. Facing back, he saw her. Abigail Hobbs. Smiling. Healthy. Little peacoat and scarf wrapped around her neck, chatting away to another girl. Fire, total fire, stoked itself into an inferno in his chest. His fists clenched at his side, his stomach rolled and his jaw spasmed. Jessie might not have been strong enough to teach Abigail a lesson, but Nicholas was. He stalked towards the pair.

If only Nicholas had have glanced backwards, just once, to see Hemlock Potter slink back out from behind the tree she had disappeared from, carelessly flicking away the tears from her eyes as if they were cloying snowflakes annoyingly stuck to lashes, crooked grin blooming on her face as she watched him march towards Abigail Hobbs, perhaps Nicholas wouldn't be dead by dawn. But there was a thin line that separated comedy from tragedy, the broken and the beautiful, the grotesque from artistry, and Hemlock, well, she was never one to be caged.

Game on.

A.N: So, what has it been? A week? Wait... Eight months? Really? Well... Shit! I'm so sorry for the exceedingly long wait. I really don't have an excuse for it. I have been trying to update this fic, but every time I wrote up a chapter it was quickly dumped in the bin and soon forgotten about. I sort of knotted myself into a big ball of hesitancy. And then it came to me. I was taking this way too seriously. I write for fun, and I write best, and most, when the experience is still fun to do. Somewhere along the line, this fic became a chore rather than a well loved hobby. I was worried about not meeting people's expectations, because you've all been so lovely, not including what you guys wanted, messing up, ruining characters such as the legendary Hannibal Lecter, and I just pulled away.

So, I pulled up my big girl pants, and faced my biggest fear, trying Hannibal's P.O.V, and this is what came out. Am I a hundred percent happy with it? No. Is it perfect? I highly doubt it! Is Hannibal's character trashed? Quite possibly! But this chapter was so fun to write, and that is what I was missing. Even if it's not perfect, and Hannibal is a little OC, I hope you all at least as half as much fun as I did writing it and, really, that's what fanfic is about, isn't it? Something fun to bring a smile to peoples faces.

All that said, now that I've shaken off this writers anxiety (Is that even a thing?), expect quicker updates! Thank you all to those who reviewed, followed and favourite'd, every single notification for this fic has pushed me to come back and work harder. And, while I know it is cheeky, seen as I've made you beautiful people wait for eight months for this, drop a review? It let's me know you all aren't dead and this fic isn't just floating in the void of the internet. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!