Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PING!

The alert from her computer echoed around the cabin as she tugged her shoes off from her morning run. It was still early. Too early for anything important, she told herself. She’d check it after breakfast.

Her curiosity, of course, disagreed.
Check it out. Look at it. You know you want to.

She clenched her jaw and poured coffee. No way was she letting an email dictate her morning. Stubbornness won the first round — one cup, then another. By the end of her second, she even declared the coffee itself counted as breakfast.

Wait. Why was she gaslighting herself? She sighed, rubbed her forehead. She really needed to get out of the house more.

Still, she held out. Not until the dishes were washed and the cup was drying on the rack did she yank her laptop from its bag and flip it open.

---

Inbox (7 new messages):

[email protected] – Teeth Repair 60-second Trick to Rebuild Your Tooth Enamel…
[email protected] – We’ve been trying to reach you. CONGRATULATIONS!!! You’re…
[email protected] – About my essay grade? Hello professor, I know you said…
[email protected] – Re: New Responsibilities I know you’re not happy with t…
[email protected] – Can I ask about the school? Hi! My name is Amaya, and I was lookin…
[email protected] – School Info? Hey, I’m Dustin. I wanted to hear more about the Fraterna…
[email protected] – Hi, looking for some advice

---

Shit.

Moments like this made her hate taking the Elk Grove teaching post. She’d signed up to grade papers, not answer random student emails. But when the outreach advisor left on “temporary” maternity leave — thanks, Nick — the extra duties had been dumped on her. Even in summer.

She almost deleted the lot. First two: spam. Reina: excuses. No. Sent. Nick’s email? Hard pass.

She skimmed Amaya’s note, all bright enthusiasm about the biology program. That one she answered quickly, forwarding the right department contact. Dustin’s, about frat parties, got a sigh and a short, disappointing truth bomb.

Then came the last one.

---

From: Abigail Hobbs
Subject: Hi, looking for some advice

Hello professor,

I don’t know exactly how to say this without being rude, but I’ve read about you, about your story. More than just your papers, I mean. I’m sorry for what you had to go through, but I’m hoping because of what happened to you, you might be able to help me.

My dad isn’t a good man. I love him because he’s my dad, but he’s not a good person. He’s done a lot of bad things, things I shouldn’t talk about here. But my dad, without going into detail, he’s a lot like Mr. Riddle.

I know what he did to you, and for you. My dad hasn’t done anything to me yet, but he’s been doing a lot for me. And I just know, one day he’s gonna hurt me. I don’t know when or how or what might set him off, but it’s going to happen. And when he does snap, I don’t think I’m strong enough to survive it. Not like you did.

So, what should I do?

Maybe you can’t help me, or just don’t want to, and that’s fine. But I’d really appreciate any advice you can give me.

Thank you,
Abigail Hobbs

---

She froze, rereading twice.

Spam, grade complaints, frat boys — that was normal. This wasn’t. This was… something else.

She didn’t need to guess what the girl meant. It was obvious. Everyone knew what had happened to her — or thought they did. Most had written her off as unstable, dangerous, broken. Even her so-called friends.

But here was someone asking her for advice. Not pity. Not sensational gossip. Advice.

She didn’t answer right away.

Check-out was noon, and it was already pushing ten. She shoved her clothes into the saddlebags of her bike, scrubbed down the cabin until it looked untouched, and dropped the key at the ranger station without slowing longer than thirty seconds.

Normally the ride home was meditative. Today, the wind and engine noise weren’t enough to drown out the girl’s questions.

What should I do?
How much does she really know?
What exactly are those bad things her father’s been doing?

And the worst one: Why do I care?

That answer was simple, even if she hated admitting it. Abigail had done what she never could. Her famous Gryffindor courage had shriveled into silence under his watchful care. But this girl, nearly nameless to her, had spoken up.

Envy burned sharp in her throat before she forced it down.

Still, the questions kept circling.
Has her father killed yet? Did she help? Or is she still just waiting for it to begin?

By the time she reached her apartment, twenty minutes later than usual thanks to the scenic detour, she was exhausted by her own thoughts. She unpacked. Prepped a casserole. Made coffee. Puttered around until there was nothing left to do except face the laptop again.

---

To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: advice

Ms. Hobbs,

I was confused, at first, why you decided to contact me. My reputation in the media is not flattering, and I wasn’t sure what you thought I could contribute. You’ve said, obliquely, that your father is doing bad things. I can guess what you mean.

I hesitated to write back at all. Conversations like this aren’t best had online. At the same time, I’m wary of meeting in person — too many “students” have turned out to be reporters.

That said, if our conversation continues, I would want to meet somewhere neutral. A coffee shop, perhaps.

For now: you are right to fear him. People like that don’t give warnings. When they snap, they simply snap.

Here’s what I suggest. Keep a knife on you. Don’t make it sudden — take a self-defense class, leave the flyer lying around, build the excuse. Then carry, discreetly. Lock your door at night if you can. Map every escape route. Keep your phone charged and on you. If you don’t have one, prepaid options are cheap.

That’s as much as I can say without knowing how close your situation is to mine. But I hope it helps, even a little.

—Prof. H. Black

---

She sent it before she could lose her nerve. Regret hit instantly, bitter as ash on her tongue.

Dinner tasted like dirt. The shower didn’t wash it away. Sleep didn’t come easily, and when it did, the heaviness was still there in the morning.

Too late to take it back now.

The ball was in Abigail Hobbs’ court.

Chapter Text

She didn’t hear from Hobbs for over a week.

Long enough for the email to start fading into the background of her life. Fall prep helped: finalizing lesson plans, fielding student questions, and — courtesy of Nick — schlepping to a string of fundraising benefits she would gladly never attend again.

She’d been to two so far. Precisely as boring and pretentious as she’d feared.

Teaching Psych 1001 hadn’t been her choice, but Nick had insisted she could “shape the minds of future students,” and the argument had irritated her into agreement. Regret followed fast. Her primary class — criminal psychology and pathology — was the one she actually liked. Varying cases kept the material fresh; bringing in a recent, relatively unbiased case was always a hit. But it was hard to find ones not skewed by sensational media.

The case she wanted had promise: Joseph Malcolm. The only accessible write-up belonged to Dr. Heimlich — dry, distant, and unhelpful. Malcolm had been labeled paranoid schizophrenic; the label told her little, and her students less.

She couldn’t talk to Malcolm — he’d died in a prison riot three months ago. But one name kept surfacing in the files: an agent credited with Malcolm’s capture. She pulled up profiles and papers and found, to her surprise, that he’d consulted on cases she remembered — including a few she’d wanted access to earlier.

There it was: his analysis of Tom — precise enough to sting. He’d peeled back parts of the dead man’s psyche she hadn’t dared remember, tracing the first killings through to the final moments. It read like a map of motive and stubborn logic instead of the fog Heimlich offered.

If only that way of thinking could be taught, she thought — then banished it. Wallowing did her no good.

She called the FBI academy’s main line and let the automated menu do its thing. It was late; the notice she’d left on the machine would have to do.

“Hello Mr. Graham? My name is Holly Black. I’m a professor at Elk Grove University. I teach criminal psychology and I was wondering if you’d consult with me on Joseph Malcolm. The only paper I can find is by Dr. Heimlich and it’s not helpful. I’d appreciate a call back. If you prefer to speak in person, I’m available this week. Thank you.”

She tossed the phone on the coffee table and shrugged. The benefit that night was something musical — opera? Orchestra? — and she wasn’t looking forward to pretending to enjoy it. At least there’d be drinks.

Her hangover the next morning made her almost regret drinking. Almost. Conversation had been shallow, company worse, and the headache persistent. When a toady asked if she’d be attending another benefactor’s dinner party, her response was profanity and a glare. Nick’s people watched; she left as soon as a cab arrived.

Back home, the usual morning ritual — run, shower, coffee, cleaning — and then the grind of email. About an hour in, her phone rang.

“Black speaking.” She scrolled with one thumb.

“Ms. Black?” A wary male voice. “This is Will Graham. You called about the Malcolm case?”

“Yes! Thank you for calling back, Mr. Graham.” Her voice probably sounded too bright.

“Um, I have classes until eleven-thirty, but if you’re free, we could discuss it over lunch. I can send the café address.”

“That would be lovely. I’ll be there.” She blinked at the clock — two hours to kill. A grin slipped across her face and she did a small, ridiculous fist pump before setting a timer and returning to emails with newfound efficiency.

When the timer buzzed she fussed over an outfit longer than was professional. She’d been warned about having a type; intelligence was it, and Graham, she decided, had it.

The café was sunlit and ordinary. He was there: scruffy, brown curls undercut by thoughtful eyes, green flannel, brown blazer, a manila folder open in front of the opposite chair. He looked a touch more rumpled than she’d imagined — in a good way.

She ordered tea and a croissant, then sat.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Graham.” She enjoyed his surprised blink.

“Uh, you too, Ms. Black.” He wiped his hands and offered one. “Just Will,” he added, encouragingly.

“Just Holly, please. You’re not one of my students.” She smiled and tapped the folder. “You brought the file.”

“Yeah. I wasn’t sure what you wanted—” He hesitated, then relaxed. “—so I printed everything.”

She skimmed a few pages while he watched. “Heimlich’s focus is on capture and psychosis,” she said. “He calls Malcolm delusional.”

Graham snorted. “Delusional is a lazy diagnosis. He was traumatized, sure, but not disconnected from motive. When he learned his unit had been decorated and he was left behind, that sense of betrayal twisted into revenge. The killings read less like random delusions and more like targeted grievance.”

“So the victims were symbols as much as targets. Their transgressions were incidental to what they represented.” She tapped the paper. “He spared the kids.”

“Because, to him, they were innocent.” Will’s hands punctuated his words. “In his mind, it was payback against those who betrayed him.”

“That’s a much cleaner thread than Heimlich’s.” She breathed it in, fascinated. “That will make class lively.”

Will’s enthusiasm surprised her; he leaned forward and talked with the kind of quick fingers that meant his mind was already two moves ahead. They fell easily into technical detail, and she loved watching him work through the logic.

“You’ve talked to killers before?” he asked at one point, brow lifting.

“A few.” She hedged, because the truth was more complicated. “It’s tricky — access, ethics, them wanting praise over analysis. They call me a murder groupie sometimes.”

He laughed — a sudden, relieved sound. Conversation kept bending toward dinner and another meeting. “Thursday? Eight-thirty?”

She hesitated — the fundraiser — then smoothed her response. “Meet me there. I’ll sneak out.”

He grinned. “I’ll text the address.”

She left with the croissant half-eaten and a grin she didn’t bother to hide. He was everything her type promised: bright, earnest, weirdly charming. If he turned out to be a serial killer, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

Chapter Text

“Holly!”

Nick’s voice cut through the hall, too chipper for the hour. He approached at speed, and Holly grimaced — she’d nearly made it to her office unseen.

“Nick,” she greeted flatly. “Yes, I’ve got a new case file planned for Psych 4042.”

“Sounds fun.” His smile was paper-thin. He taught astrophysics, about as far from murder as one could get. “You remember all adjustments have to be cleared by the board?”

“Of course.” She’d already started the paperwork. No need to tell him that.

“Great, great.” His pause was too long. Ah, here came the ambush. “I had a complaint about your behavior at the benefit.”

Her brow arched. What in Merlin’s name is he talking about?

“I stayed until eight, didn’t criticize the performance, and stayed out of most conversations. Who exactly did I offend, and how?”

Oh. The swearing. Probably that.

“Well, I’ve been told you insulted one of the guests. Hannibal Lecter.”

“…Who?”

Nick sighed as though she’d asked who the moon belonged to.

“He’s one of the most influential men in Baltimore. His parties are legend — and impossible to get into. You don’t remember insulting him?”

“Nope. People were trying to talk me into some dinner party, I said no, and then I left.”

“Thankfully he’s generous. He invited you to his next dinner party.”

“Hurray.” She brushed past him, unlocking her office. “Is there something else?”

“Try not to offend anyone this time?”

“Fine. But I’m still leaving at eight. I have a date.”

“Oh. Congratulations.” His expression soured, though he’d never once tried asking her out. She would have said no. He didn’t know that.

“Thanks.” She checked her clock pointedly. “I’ve got work.”

“Right. Have a nice day, Holly!”

“Yeah.” She shut the door firmly behind him.

---

Her inbox awaited. Spam cleared. Student questions answered — Gabreal was already planning finals, Steven already complaining about lacrosse games.

And then: Abigail Hobbs.

Three weeks since Holly’s reply. She’d almost forgotten the girl existed, lost in class prep and thoughts of Will Graham’s mind. But here was another email.

She glanced at her unlocked door, then shut the blinds, locked up, and silenced her phone before opening it.

Professor Black,

Thank you for your advice. I’ve taken a self-defense class since your email, thank you for the flier. Funny enough, my mom was more scared of me learning self-defense and carrying a knife than my dad. I’m pretty sure he’s done it again since I wrote.

If you could, I’d really appreciate a meeting. I’ll be visiting Elk Grove in two weeks. I’d like to be able to talk to someone honestly, for once.

I’ll send the dates, if you still want to meet?

Thank you again,
Abby Hobbs

Calm. Too calm. Maybe she wasn’t in the firing line. Yet.

Holly typed quickly:

Ms. Hobbs,

I would indeed be open to meeting. Let me know what days you will be in the area, and I’ll confirm availability.

I do hope you will be well when we meet.

Stay safe,
Holly Black

She hit send before she could regret it.

Two social ties in as many weeks. Too many. Her grand plan to be an antisocial recluse wasn’t going well. Not with Will, not with Abigail.

---

Thursday arrived.

Tonight, Holly dressed. Green halter, flowing skirt, slit to the thigh. Silver jewelry. Even did her hair. Merlin help her.

She endured the benefit with surprising grace, even managed to stay mostly unrecognized — until a voice stopped her on the balcony.

“Ms. Black, was it?”

A cultured, accented tone. The man was handsome, immaculate. She’d seen him before, maybe.

“Yes. And you are?”

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter.” He kissed her hand.

Oh, shit.

“I’ve been hearing about you recently,” she said evenly.

“So I’ve heard.” His polite smile didn’t mask the quiet fury in his eyes.

They traded lies. He liked the view. He wished to speak with her. He invited her, in person, to his next dinner party. October 31st.

A trap, neatly sprung.

She smiled back anyway. “I’ll try to be there.”

He left like a dancer in a predator’s body.

Merlin, she needed a drink.

She settled for water, tipped the bartender well, then slipped out just before eight. Lecter caught her eye on the way — she curtsied reflexively. His brow lifted. She escaped.

The night air was cool. Perfect for the bike.

---

Will waited outside the restaurant, amused at her mix of slit-dress and boots. He offered a hand off her bike; she accepted. His suit was simple, well-pressed. It suited him.

“So, a bike?”

“Always wanted one. America seemed the place to do it.”

“It suits you.” He assessed her calmly. “But isn’t it cold?”

“Not with this jacket.” She offered him her sleeve. He slipped his hand in, surprised at the warmth. Both hands followed. She laughed.

“Like I said.”

He chuckled, shivering. “Our table’s ready.”

He didn’t let go of her hand, even inside.

Drinks. An Irish Mule for her, whiskey for him. They toasted.

“Will,” she said slowly. “I’ve been looking forward to this. I enjoyed our little chat.”

“Not just the death?”

“Not just the death.”

They talked work, family, pets. His six stray dogs. Her owl, her cat, her dog that died when she was fifteen. His hand rested on hers. She didn’t pull away.

They joked about hobbies. Cleaning binges. He teased. She scandalized him with a fake accent. They laughed.

“Next time,” she said, patting his hand.

“Next time,” he agreed, hope softening his face.

They lingered over food, over cases, over the poor waitress scarred by their autopsy talk. By the end, they had a second date planned. Fishing. Dogs.

He kissed her cheek, then her lips.

She rode home high on it, warm through and through. She didn’t dare dream of futures — but of next times, yes.

Until she stepped into her wards.

Her apartment felt wrong.

Someone had broken in.

And they were still inside.

Chapter Text

“You nearly gave me heart failure, you prat!” Holly growled under her breath, hurling a shoe at Blaise’s smirking face. He dodged with infuriating ease, taking a taunting sip from her firewhiskey.

“Don’t tell me Greengrass is here too?”

“You’re surprised?” drawled Daphne, sweeping into the room like she owned it. Still dressed to the nines, she looked as though she’d just stepped off the cover of Witch Weekly. Her shoes alone were worth a small fortune.

Holly tilted her head, considered, and decided bluntly:

Worth it.

“Nice shoes,” she said at last, dropping the other from her hand with a dull thunk. “It’s nothing personal. I’ve just been… reminded of things I’d rather forget lately. A bit on edge.”

“Something going around, I’m afraid.” Blaise grimaced, and Holly’s stomach dipped. “You haven’t read the Prophet, I take it?”

“No.” She snorted. “Even before I left, I never read that rag. The Quibbler… well.” Her eyes skittered away. “Once that was gone, I stopped reading the news altogether.”

“I figured.” Blaise took a steadying gulp, then delivered the blow. “Skeeter was released from Azkaban last week.”

“For the—really?!” Holly shot to her feet. “That cockroach was supposed to get twenty years at least!” Her glare swung to Daphne. “You were supposed to make sure of that!”

The blonde folded her arms and scoffed, though not without guilt. “Hard to prove she’s a threat when her most famous victim isn’t around to say so.” She cut Holly off with a raised hand. “And yes, I know what you’re going to say—‘she had other victims.’ Sorry to disappoint, but not anymore.”

The words cracked across her like a whip. “What?” Holly gasped. “What about Hannah, or Susan, or Fleur?!”

Blaise rose and placed his hands firmly on her shoulders. “Holly. Look at me. Breathe.” He guided her down into his chair, drawing her rhythm back into sync with his own until her lungs steadied. Across the table, Daphne’s icy composure wavered into shame.

“Bones died four years ago in Diagon Alley,” Blaise said at last, voice low. “Collapsed building during an attack—speculation she was the target, nothing proven. Abbott finally succumbed to her curse wounds a few months back; she’d even written another book about you before then. Delacour moved to France with her daughter, said it was the rise of pureblood sentiment. And a few of the others—Brown, Boot, Davies—disappeared right before the proposal for Skeeter’s release.”

Holly buried her face in her hands. “...fuck.” Her voice rasped between her fingers. “What about Seamus and Dean?”

“Finnigan’s still haunting Longbottom’s estate,” Blaise said gently. “But Thomas’ disappearance gutted him. He hasn’t been stable since the battle, and this didn’t help.”

“Do you think they’re dead?”

“They’ve tried everything,” Daphne admitted, sliding her hand over Holly’s. “No trace. No wards left standing, either—not even Brown’s. The day she vanished, her wards collapsed. She’s gone.”

Holly grabbed the bottle and drank deep, then froze mid-swallow. “Skeeter’s got allies.”

Blaise’s nod was short, grim. “None tied to my networks. We’re not sure if she picked them up inside or out.”

“The point is,” Daphne added, “she’s dangerous now. No compunctions.”

“If she ever had any.” Holly’s voice cracked bitterly. “She’s coming for me.”

“You did ruin her life,” Blaise reminded her.

“And she’ll try to ruin yours,” Daphne said firmly. “But no one knows where you went. We buried your trail.” Still, her brow furrowed with doubt.

It was almost nice, Holly thought, to be worried over.

But Blaise wasn’t reassured. “You know Skeeter. If she wants you, she’ll sniff out the trail eventually.”

“So this is your plea for me to move again?” Holly asked, incredulous.

Both Slytherins grimaced, conceding the point.

“No,” Blaise sighed. “We know you too well. You’d ignore us anyway, foolhardy Gryffindor.”

“So what’s the scheme?”

They shared a glance.

“We’ve set false trails across a few countries,” Daphne admitted. “If she bites, she lands in one of our safe houses. And then—”

“‘Deal with her,’” Holly supplied, arching a brow. “Delicate way of saying ‘kill her and feed her to the pigs.’”

Blaise raised his glass in salute. Daphne, however, bristled.

“Oh, like you can criticize me for killing,” she snapped, her composure cracking.

“I wasn’t criticizing,” Holly soothed. “You once yelled at me for not calling things what they are. Said it let you dodge responsibility.”

Daphne collapsed into her chair, exhausted, the anniversary pressing on her like lead. Blaise and Holly each took one of her hands.

“Do you want to talk or avoid it?” Blaise asked, gentle.

“I need to talk about it,” Daphne admitted, “but not now.”

The two exchanged a silent nod over her head.

“I haven’t seen you in a few months, Blaise.” Holly turned a winsome grin of her own on the Italian born man. “How’s business? Your mother?”

“Things are going well, all told.” He answered easily. “Those rats I mentioned last time we spoke? They were easy enough to frame for a botched warehouse explosion. If said warehouse just so happened to be the traitorous cur’s new master’s?” He gave her an unconcerned shrug. “As for my mother, she’s maintained that you were her last great love. Her soulmate, even.”

“Soulmate, hm?” Holly nodded in mock consideration. “I shall cherish the short time we spent together, but I’m afraid your mother is not the woman for me. Her heart is not mine to claim.” She gave him a dramatic flourish with her free hand. “But seriously, how’s she doing? Not bored, I hope? She’s suddenly got so much more free time on her hands.”

“She’s enjoying it.” He laughed. “She’s treating it like an extended ‘mourning’ vacation. No new men, or women, yet. Probably won’t be for a while, what with Rubeo’s disappearance.”

“Keeping a low profile for a time. Probably a good idea.” She nodded sagely. “She should get a hobby, attract them that way, change things up a little.”

“I’ll tell her you said that.” Blaise responds with a swarthy smirk.

Daphne finally lifted her head back up, her composure once more in place.

“Thank you.” She told them gratefully smoothing out the locks of hair that had come loose. “I know I need to speak about it eventually but just not now.”

“You know I don’t ask for your every secret, Daph.” Holly reassured her, patting her friend’s hand. “I just want honesty.”

“Which is why we told you about Skeeter and our plans.” Blaise responded. “I know you probably want to be a part of this, but…”

She sighed and nodded. “I’d be a liability without my magic.”

“Not completely, you’re wicked fast.” He complimented charmingly. “On and off a broom. But, yes.”

“We’ve got our bases covered.” Daphne told her. “The moment she steps into one of those safe houses, she’s dead.”

“We’ll even send you her head.” Blaise added, the ghost of a crazed grin on his face. “As, you know, proof.”

“Uh huh.” Holly drawled skeptically. “And what precisely would I do with a head?” The Zabini heir shrugged uncaringly.

“What’s that game muggles play with the ball knocking things over? Nevermind.” He waved away her reflexive answer. “Point is, you could mount it, burn it, toss it into a pit, Hel, you could even eat it. It will be yours to do with as you please, afterwards. But first, it’s going to give you peace of mind, the moment it’s in your hands.”

She heaved a heavy sigh and took another hefty swig of firewhiskey.

A faint chime from his pocket had Blaise dig out his watch. He frowned at the time and quickly slammed the rest of his drink like a shot, grasping Holly’s hand firmly in his own.

“On my honor and that of my family, I swear to you that Skeeter will die screaming.” He declared. When Holly finally nodded her understanding, he placed a kiss on the back of each hand and then one to each cheek. “I need to go, unfortunately, but I’ll see you when I have an update. Ladies.”

He gave the two women a flourishing bow and apparated away.

Daphne shook her head.

“Always on the move, that one.” She turned her attention back to Holly. “And he may have been polite enough not to mention it, but I’m not. How was the date?”

Holly laughed ruefully.

“It was good. Nice.” She smiled at the memory.

“Oh, what’s he like?” The blonde leaned forward with an indulgent smirk.

“He’s a criminal profiler, a very good profiler, who I met recently. He’s handsome, extremely intelligent, and passionate about the things he’s interested in. And a bit awkward.”

“Ha, fits you to a T. Is he also a serial killer?” Holly rolled her eyes.

“No.” She defended. Then added weakly, “Not yet.”

“Merlin save me,” Daphne groaned. “Did the first one not teach you anything?”

“I know. But if he were…” Holly swallowed hard. “He wouldn’t be the same kind as Riddle.”

Daphne raised a brow. “Still calling him that?”

“It’s in the books. And if I don’t…” Holly’s throat closed. “I’ll break.”

“It’s been eight years,” Daphne said gently. “Will you ever face it?”

“Will you?” Holly shot back. After a moment, she laughed weakly. “Probably not. I was never sane to begin with—why start now?”

The blonde rolled her eyes heavily.

“As much as I’d love to continue this discussion on your questionable sanity and taste, I should probably head out.” She hesitated. “I’ll… let you know when I’m… ready to talk.”

“I’ll be here.”

They exchanged a quick hug, and then the Greengrass heiress was gone, leaving Holly alone with the bottle of firewhiskey and her thoughts.

xoOXOox

It came to no surprise to her that the next week was wracked with tension and hypervigilance. She felt hunted, watched. No where was free of the feeling, not even her own apartment, with wards to tell her if someone was on the premises.

But nothing happened. No shadows, no intrusions. Just stillness. Holly finally felt as though she could relax.

It helped that this coincided with her second date with Will.

She didn’t know if she’d ever truly enjoy fishing, not the way he obviously did, but it was calming and she loved hearing the passion in his voice as he showed her how to cast a line or to tie a lure. And watching his face as he stood in the moving waters was a thing of beauty. Calm, serene, happy. She almost envied it.

Heading back to his house for lunch with their catch was educational, too, having never broken down a fish before. Doing it herself and then making food from it definitely gave her a sense of accomplishment.

The dogs also helped.

They were rambunctious. Energetically jumping and chasing each other around the yard as her and Will ate their fishy lunch on the porch. She was almost getting exhausted just watching them.

“You seemed to have calmed down a bit.” He finally said, eyes still watching the littlest one race about. Buster, if she wasn’t mistaken.

“Ah, you noticed that.” She shook her head ruefully. “I got some…bad news from England earlier this week. A few old friends have died.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he said. His eyes cut to hers. “But you don’t seem… sad about it.”

“I guess I’m not.” Her shoulders jumped up in an uncertain shrug. “We fell out before I left, rather explosively. We didn’t stay in touch.” She considered it. “I think I’m more… angry, than anything. At them, at myself, at the world.” Sighing, she added, “And then-well, one of my old convictions got released. She’s probably already sniffing for me.”

“You think she might come after you?” He asked, eyebrows furrowing in concern.

“Eventually. I’m not threatened by her,” she told him reassuringly, “I’m just worried she’s going to come in and disrupt my new life here. She had a habit of doing that before prison.”

He nodded in understanding.

“She’s not dangerous?”

“Ha, anyone can be dangerous.” She responded darkly. “Under the right circumstances, anyone can kill or harm someone else. But as for her?” She shook her head. “It’s not likely she’d hurt someone directly. Besides, I’ve been reassured no one knows where I went.”

They watched the dogs for a few minutes in silence. Zoe finally having enough of the activity, plodded her way over to them and climbed into Holly’s lap. The woman bemusedly began scratching the dog’s ears.

Will laughed at her predicament.

“She’ll lay there all day if you let her.” He gave Zoe a scritch on the chin.

“I don’t think I’d mind.” She admitted wryly. “Keeps me from work.”

“I thought you liked your work?”

“Oh, I do.” She reassured him. “I don’t know if the FBI makes you do this, but whenever I want to add something new to the curriculum, I have to present it to the college board. See if they consider it a good addition to my course.”

“So, it’s a bit like defending your thesis?”

She considered that for a moment. “...Yeah, a bit. It’s like I’m in uni once more, with a huge essay due in a week and a million other things that need doing.”

“Is it about the Malcolm case?” At her nod he continued on enthusiastically. “I’ve got that listed for next week, we could talk it out in more detail, if you’d like.”

“Lets.” She agreed with a grin. “But I think we’re going to need some coffee for this.”

“Agreed.”

She ended up staying over that night.

Chapter Text

Not long after her friends’ mysterious apartment visit, classes began. Unfortunately, that was a mildly terrifying mile marker — it meant the Hobbs meeting was approaching. And Lecter’s party.

Of which Nick would not. Stop. Bugging. Her.

“You need to arrive tonight no later than seven PM but no earlier than six-thirty,” he recited, as though she’d never attended a society dinner in her life. “You don’t want to look overeager, but you don’t want to appear uncaring either. Also, it’s formal attire. Opera-level. One of those dresses, y’know? Like the green one, with the lace—”

His hand started to gesture far too close to where that lace had once sat, and her raised eyebrow cut him off cold. He fumbled, cleared his throat, and pretended to dust lint off his trousers. “And above all, try not to offend anyone.”

“I know.” Dry. Annoyed. She’d already endured this lecture three times today. He had pounced immediately after her lecture, trailing her to her office and droning on about etiquette she’d mastered at seventeen. He ignored every polite hint for him to leave. “I’ve been to a few dinner parties before.”

He gave her a slow once-over, clearly unconvinced.

She had to actively unclench her hands to keep from strangling her boss.

“The school needs you to make a good impression.” Nick continued, ignorant of the fact that his life was still on the line. “If he decides to donate to the college, his friends will follow suit.” He stressed the last line as though it were a life or death matter. She wanted to roll her eyes again.

“What ‘intelligent’ friends he has…” She muttered sarcastically. Raising her voice slightly, she told him, “I know how to be on my best behavior, Nick. I won’t offend him again.”

“You’d better not.” Oh, that little. If she turned into a serial killer, he was third on her list. Not first, obviously, because the first two would have to be unconnected to her in any way to throw off suspicion. Did she think about this a bit too much? Yes. Was she going to stop it?

No.

“If that will be all, Nick?” She cocked an eyebrow, glancing at the door. Her student, Gabrael, was waiting patiently just outside, far too familiar with this ritual to look surprised.

He opened his mouth as though he were going to add something, then paused with a glance at her student before clearing his throat. He stood from his seat and awkwardly made his way past the student who had seen far too many of these particular confrontations to react.

Nick opened his mouth, then shut it again when he noticed the witness. Clearing his throat, he squeezed past Gabrael with the awkward gait of a man who had overstayed his welcome.

“Welcome back to school, Professor,” Gabrael said warmly, pulling a battered laptop from her bag as Holly shut the door behind her.

Holly barked a laugh. “Yes, it does seem to be a semesterly tradition, doesn’t it? So, Ms. Loren—what brings you to my office the first week back?”

“Well, I had a few questions about one of the serial killers we talked about last semester, Francis Hannigan? I was wondering if…”

The rest of the day passed rather uneventfully, thank Merlin. Nick was either busy or had wised up to the fact that she might kill him if he tried again. Perhaps both?

In an effort to practice her best socializing mask, Holly had coffee with one of her fellow psychology professors, talking about shared students and the batch of baby faced psych majors they’d gotten. She even helped him plot the pop quiz he was planning for his next class.

For her that was downright friendly.

Once the school day was done, though, and she was standing in her bedroom, her mood plummeted. Even calling Will didn’t help.

Well, it didn’t help much .

“Are you sure you can’t come with me?” Holly begged pathetically, knowing the answer already.

“I’d love to come with you… No, that’s a lie, I’d have to wear a tux.” He realized dryly. She laughed at his distaste. “I’d love to give you a good excuse to miss it, though. You could grade papers with me?”

With a sigh, she’s forced to accept her fate.

“Only thing I think can get me out of this is my untimely demise.” She admitted. “The board and Nick are really angling for donations from this lot. They need a body there to convince them. Think we could switch places?”

“Ha! I don’t think I could pull a dress off quite as well as you.” Will replied with amusement. “Go. Take the free food and think horrible things about the other guests. Or imagine them in stupid clothes. Once the night is over, you don’t have to do it again.”

“That is comforting.” Her dress glared at her knowingly from the back of her door. “I should probably start getting dressed. See you tomorrow?” She added hopefully.

“Sure.” He laughed. “I’ll clear my terribly busy schedule of fixing a boat motor and playing with my dogs.”

“Just for me, huh? I could get used to this pampering.”

“See you tomorrow, Holly.” His grin was audible through the phone.

“Bright and early. Bye, luv!”

The phone call ended and she tossed it onto the bed. She heaved a sigh. There was nothing else she could do to distract herself. It was six in the evening, she really only had about a half hour to get ready and that was cutting it close. She needed to get started immediately if she was actually going to try and make a good impression tonight.

Merlin help her, she hated this fancy shit.

Chapter Text

Holly ended up arriving on Lecter’s doorstep at six forty-five sharp alongside a dark haired couple around her age.

They gave her that look she was so familiar with when she rode up on her bike, helmet lifting to reveal her tumble of dark locks down her back. The urge to scandalize them even further rose to near unbearable levels. The host of the evening opened the door, however, seeming to have sensed their coming.

The couple shuffled in quickly once Lecter greeted them, eager to get away from her, no doubt. He was wearing a strange mix of plaid, paisley, and garish colors that oddly seemed to fit him. Like a tiger with its stripes.

Lecter’s reaction to the helmet under her arms and the jacket around her shoulders was… disappointing. He just smiled politely and accepted both for his coat room.

The man had his own coat room. Merlin.

“A pleasure to see you again, Lady Black.” Were his only words as he led her through the ornately decorated hall and into the equally ornate library. She counted maybe twenty other people there, all clearly repeat participants to these parties, milling about with practiced curiosity. A man dressed in a white tailcoat approached Lecter, interrupting her observations. He whispered something in the man’s ear, something that caused a very brief flash of genuine anger and displeasure to cross his face.

It was gone by the time he looked to her.

“As much as I’d love to continue chatting, my lady, I’m afraid matters in the kitchen call for my attention.” His smile was apologetic and honest, a far cry from the visceral disgust that had just painted it. Her hand was lifted delicately and a gentle kiss pressed to its back, then he was gone, the doors closing behind him. And she was left in the lion’s den.

A careful examination of the room and its occupants revealed a tray of what she presumed was wine, nearly abandoned in a corner of books. She strode over quickly, picked up a glass, and began perusing the doctor’s collection. She hoped that her preoccupation would discourage any of the braver guests from attempting to talk to her.

No such luck.

As she was examining a beautiful leather bound edition of something she’d seen in the Zabini library once, a man approached her, his own glass of wine in hand.

He was in his forties or fifties, with a trim figure and a receding hairline of burnished copper. A blue tux was matched with a lighter blue paisley tie. The way he held himself reminded her instantly of a mix of Fudge at his most political and Goyle at his smartest.

She instantly did not like him.

“It was Ms. Black, wasn’t it?” He asked as he approached, heedless of her obvious reluctance to speak with him. His swagger over was practiced, yet somehow still a bit clumsy. “It’s ever so interesting to find a new face at one of Dr. Lecter’s parties. I’ve been to five of them, so far. Aaron Burke.” He added at the end with a perfunctory offer of his hand.

She took it uneasily. He had a firm, slightly clammy handshake and thankfully released her hand quickly.

Burke. Where did she know that name from?

“Oh, you’re running for governor.” She realized with a tilt of her head. Burke puffed up a bit, pride no doubt filling his head. Only her promise to behave made her ask, “How’s your campaign going?”

Puffing up even further, the man launched into a long winded, detailed explanation of the districts and visits he needed to make in order to get this support or that, what donors already supported him, how much money he’d accumulated.

Was he trying to impress her?

She nodded along encouragingly at all the pauses in his speech, tuning him out with a mental rendition of the latest Weird Sisters song. The drums beat a cheerful path through her brain as she continued to glance around the room.

Without even bringing up her new face to the party, it was clear she was an outsider. She knew she didn’t carry herself like the Lady she was, Serena, Daphne, and Blaise had all attempted to teach her how to hold herself on separate occasions. Short amounts of time were fine, but sustained? Her more utilitarian movements still shone through.

She’d long given up trying to change it.

As she was glancing about, she noticed another man doing similar, dressed in a brown plaid suit jacket with an equally garish tie, she wondered if it was conscious mimicry of their host.

Where Lecter was like a tiger with his stripes and colors, this man was more akin to a peacock. Interesting to look at, but otherwise useless.

He, unfortunately, noticed her slightly lingering gaze and made his way over to her impromptu lecture on the intricacies of political campaigns.

“Aaron,” the new man said, interrupting his sermon, “a pleasure to see you this evening. And who is your charming companion? Your ‘date’ for the evening?” He offered her a hand. “Dr. Frederick Chilton. Don’t let Aaron bore you with politics all night, my dear. There are much better conversationalists here tonight.”

Was he implying…? She took his hand politely, attempting to keep the annoyance from her face. Like Lecter had earlier, Chilton took her hand and pressed a kiss to the back. Unlike Lecter, Chilton had obviously only ever seen it done in movies, his lips fully pressing to her skin.

Once her hand was released, she subtly wiped the traces of saliva on her dress.

This conversation was going to be fun wasn’t it? She had to remind herself, best behavior. Don’t punch the creepy asshole… unless he tried to grope her, she amended. Then all bets were off.

“Holly Black.” She finally responded, as politely as she could manage. “Mr. Burke was just regaling me with his tales of his time on the campaign trail.”

Burke took the comment as it was meant, puffing up to continue his chatter. She hoped Chilton took the hint.

He did not.

As he began in on his own sermon, Holly had to hide a sigh behind a sip of wine. She had to get the talkative ones.

“... and men such as Gideon are susceptible to flattery.” He was saying when her attention refocused. Who was Gideon? A client or something? “With his crimes being what they are, it’s just a matter of time and encouragement before they admit to their other crimes.”

Oh, was he talking about that family annihilator from a few years ago. What was it? A-something? Alex? It had never really captured her attention, his crimes being neither terribly complicated or nuanced.

“I’m sure.” She told him noncommittally. The encouragement seemed to be all he needed, regardless of her lack of enthusiasm. He continued full steam ahead.

It seemed, with his discussion of his patients, he was attempting to both impress and disturb her. Gruesome details mixing with his ‘impressive’ work on these ‘deranged minds.’ A few not-so-subtle leers adding up to the worst conversation of the night.

Burke had disappointedly left a few minutes after Chilton had stolen the conversation, abandoning her in favor of a pretty older blonde in the opposite corner.

“But I’m being terribly rude, Holly.” She suppressed a twitch at his unauthorized use of her first name. “How did you manage to get an invite this evening? Unknown plus ones are ever so rare to see here.” His pointed glance at Burke made it very clear what he thought the situation was.

“I’m not a plus one.” She told him through gritted teeth, mouth painted with her obligatory polite smile.

“The doctor invited you personally ?” Chilton’s eyebrows lifted in astonishment while his mouth smirked with new information. He thought he’d figured something out. “How… interesting.”

She resisted the need to rub her eyes in annoyance.

Had Lecter made implications before her arrival, or was Chilton just that presumptuous? Her money was on the latter. Lecter was just too put together to imply in any way, that she was his hooker or a gold digger. It would tarnish his reputation, and he’d not get anything out of it.

Hm. She revised her statement from earlier in the day. Chilton would be her third victim, Nick would be her sixth. How would she do it, though? Strangulation did have that visceral appeal. Very hands on.

The dark musing kept her from actually attempting to grab at the man’s neck or punch him out. But she ended up tuning out whatever question the man asked. He was staring at her expectantly.

Lecter where in Merlin’s name are you?

As though summoned, the library doors finally burst open, the devil himself returning to inform them that “Dinner is ready in the dining room.”

Said dining room was just as ornately decorated as the rest of the house she’d seen, a strange painting on the wall of a naked woman and a swan. She raised her eyebrows at the art, pausing in her trek to find her seating placement card, like everyone else. Finally, she decided ignoring it was probably the most polite course of action and continued on.

She had expected – no, hoped – for her place card to be at the far end of the table from both Chilton and Lecter.

Her host had other ideas, unfortunately.

Chilton was thankfully half a table away from her, far too much a distance for him to even attempt to continue a conversation with her. Lecter, however, had placed her on his left, next to a vaguely familiar dark haired older woman he greeted as ‘Ellen.’ Across from her sat an older blonde man named Donald.

Lecter pulled out Holly’s chair for her as she approached. Her eyes flicked up to his. So he was going full tilt on this, huh? She nodded her head politely and accepted the seat offered, pulling out her best Lady of the most Ancient and Noble House Black manners.

Elbows kept off the table, back straight, head held high.

Lecter stood behind his own chair watching the severs bring out the food, but his pleased eyes told her he noticed.

See, she was being on her best behavior.

When the last plate had been delivered and everyone’s glasses filled, hers included, Lecter lifted his arms slightly. The quiet chatter cut off into silence. She raised a brow. His command over them was astonishing.

“Before we begin, I must warn you… nothing here is vegetarian.” He said over the sudden quiet. It was practiced, cool, and with a quiet smirk at his own joke.

And people started clapping.

She stared with incredulous eyes at the thunderous applause as though this was some sort of live performance. Only joining out of courtesy, she continued to stare at her strange dinner companions.

Lecter seemed to enjoy it, however. Perhaps that’s why  he held these parties? For attention.

She took a heavy drink from her glass, shaking her head.

“I see you’re enjoying the Cabernet Sauvignon.” The host of the evening spoke up, pleasantly, taking a bite off his plate.

“It’s an excellent vintage.” Holly admitted. “Whiskey is more to my tastes, however.”

“I can have a tumbler poured for you, my lady, should you wish?” His offer was almost kind, but she’d learned never to trust those kinds of faces.

“You chose this specifically for the pairing.” She responded mildly. “I’d hate to disrupt your carefully crafted flavors.”

He accepted this deflection with a small toast of his own glass.

“What do you think of the food, my lady?” He asked expectantly. She had yet to take a bite, too wrapped up with people clapping about dinner. Suppressing her instinctive shrug, she picked up the correct fork and speared a piece of the fragrant meat, some leafy green, and dragged it though a bit of the sauce drizzled about the plate.

It melted on her tongue. Her eyes closed involuntarily as she bit down a quiet moan.

“Delicious.” She informed him with quiet pleasure after a few moments. “And I was right about the wine. What are we being graced with tonight?”

“Slow roasted lamb on a bed of arugula with a lamb au jus and a side of nicoise salad.” His words were infused with a careful blend of pride and friendliness. With her pleasure at her meal assured, the doctor turned his attention to the man on his other side.

Her next bite was slow and thoughtful.

Lamb? The man had to be joking. This definitely was not lamb. The flavor of it certainly rang a familiar note, almost veal or beef, but definitely not lamb. She’d had enough of it dining at Chez Zabini and with Fleur to recognize the taste of it anywhere.

She took another bite.

Why would he lie, though? To fool his upper crust dinner guests into eating some shitty cut of meat while quietly laughing at their ignorance? She could see that. Lecter did have a bit of that conniving trickster air about him. And she already knew he was petty enough for it.

She eyed him carefully as she took another bite.

But what if?

Something that Riddle had taught her, back before she’d figured… everything out, was the ‘what if?’ game. What if it was the worst possible scenario? What if they meant the worst for you or themself? What if?

So, what if? What if Lecter was lying about the meat for more than just a petty joke on his fellow uppercrusters? What if it was more sinister than that?

Biting into it once more, she tried tasting for poison of some kind. Nothing noticeable, but that had been a long shot. Lots of poisons were tasteless, orderless, but she didn’t feel any effects. So probably not poison. Disease, maybe?

Hmm.

“Ms. Black,” the woman next to her, Ellen, interrupted her thoughts. “I hate to presume, but I believe I’ve sat in one of your lectures before. At Elk Grove University?”

“Which one?” Holly asked after a moment, still reeling a bit from the sudden disruption.

“About Lyudmila Wright, the Bulgarian black widow.”

“Ah, yes, I think I remember seeing you drop into my lecture. An interesting case to discuss. Did you like the lecture?”

“Very much.” Ellen praised. “I used her profile and crimes as the basis for one of my characters.”

Holly racked her brain for a moment. Movie? Probably not. Play? Doubtful. Book, then. But which one…

“Oh! You’re Ellen Komeda, aren’t you?” She realized delightedly. “The ‘Killer Persuasion’ series, right?”

“Oh, a fan?” Ellen matched her delight.

“Of course, I don’t get much time to read fiction, but your killers give me great material for thought exercises with my students.”

“High praise, indeed.” She laughed happily. “I’ll admit, several of your lectures have inspired my characters. The Arcelio Vander case was particularly interesting.”

“Oh yes.” Holly agreed enthusiastically. “You used his case for… Henrik Gustaff from your third book, didn’t you?”

“Well spotted.” Ellen praised. “Vander’s was a case I was very interested in watching unfold, when I saw your lecture on him pop up, I couldn’t resist.”

“Well, if you’re interested,” Holly found herself offering, “This semester I’ll be talking about a few of the old classics first, Bundy, Dahlmer, the like, but I’ve added Joseph Malcolm to my December roster. And from what I’ve heard, they’re going to release more details about the Vander case.”

“Oh, how exciting!” The older woman was near jumping for joy. “You’ve looked over Vander’s case file, haven’t you? Would you be able to tell me what he did with his trophies? They never released that information and curiosity is killing me.”

“I’ve seen them.” Holly told her laughingly. “Not the best dinner conversation, I’m afraid. But I’d be happy to talk about it after dinner.”

The older woman almost sagged with disappointment, nearly pouting, but turned back to her half-full plate.

Holly nearly laughed again at the woman’s dramatics, she wasn’t being cruel. If anything she was doing the woman a service. Talking about cannibalism while you ate usually ended up with mixed results. Either you lost your appetite or you didn’t, in which case, everyone who did looked at you oddly until they forgot about it. Especially since the conversation always seems to turn to ‘what does human taste… like…?’

…Oh. That son of a bitch.

She had to resist the urge to swing a glare at her host.

Fucking hell. Of course it tasted familiar, that asshole . Her teeth ground together unpleasantly. She had to take a careful breath to calm herself. Lecter was watching her from the corner of his eye, no doubt analyzing every action and reaction.

Sigh. Well, this was her life now, wasn’t it?

She took another bite. Dammit. Still delicious.

That probably said something fucked up about her, didn’t it?

Just get through the rest of this night, she urged herself. She was going to see Will tomorrow. And once this night was over, she’d probably never have to see Lecter again.

She took another bite.

It did explain why the man did most, if not all, of the cooking, though. Couldn’t let someone recognize the fact that it wasn’t the right color or shape or whatever . Did he only do this for his dinner parties? Or did he do this for his own meals, as well? Did he actually choose human meat over animal?

Either way, it was a power move, she knew that. An act of dominance. Over the people he killed and those at his dinner parties. Did he hate them? Or were they simply tools for his enjoyment?

Another bite, followed by a healthy sip of wine.

This was all theoretical, of course, she had to remind herself. It wasn’t a certainty that he was feeding them humans. The petty trickster possibility was still a possibility.

Why’d she have to get messed up in this shit? Again?

Daphne thought she was taking a risk with Will , well here she was attracting serial killer attention left and right. Will, Skeeter, Lecter. Possibly Hobbs. She was a regular killer magnet.

She had the worst fucking luck.

Make it through dinner, she reminded herself again. She armored herself up with her manners once more.

She continued eating.

Being so visibly absorbed in her food, no one else decided to jump in for conversation, not even Lecter. Thank Merlin.

From the corner of her eye she saw him watching her eat with a pleased smirk, the bastard.

Couldn’t someone just call her with an emergency or something?

Finally, her plate was empty, as was her glass, telling the table that she was once more ready for conversation.

Lecter turned his attention back to her, of course.

“So, my lady, what brings you to Baltimore?”

“It was less a destination as it was the last stop on a trip.” she told him evenly. “I wanted to leave the UK, so I stopped for a few years in France and Italy then made my way to America. When I got here I decided that I wanted to go to college, which transformed into a job opportunity. I simply haven’t felt the urge to leave yet.”

“But you expect to?”

“I don’t like staying in one place. The world is so much more interesting than your own backyard.”

“Very true.” He agreed. “But there is comfort in the familiar.”

“I’ve never been too concerned with my own comfort.”

He had nothing to say to that, so he switched topics. “You mentioned a few years in Italy?”

“Mm.” she agreed. “Florence, Rome, Venice. A friend of mine has homes in all three cities. He offered me a place to stay while I was wandering. I couldn’t say no. Serena would have been so disappointed.”

“Serena? An old Italian flame?” He mused curiously.

“Something like that.” She agreed. “She romanced me throughout Italy, knowing that eventually, I’d leave and she would not follow.”

“Not true love then.”

“I don’t know if I believe in true love. Or soulmates.” Her cynicism slipped through a bit. “Love who you can, when you can. Before death comes for you.”

“An interesting mindset.” Lecter acknowledged. “For an interesting woman.”

She smiled mildly.

A passing server filled her glass for her, of which she took a grateful sip.

Just dessert left.

xoOXOox

Somehow, she made it home in one piece, without punching or slapping anyone. After dinner, while she’d been waiting to collect her things from the coat room, she’d been approached by two men who’d sat next to Chilton all night.

None of them had heard her discussion with Ellen Komeda or Lecter and it seemed Chilton had been talking her up as Lecter’s prostitute.

They each asked her to ‘accompany’ them for the rest of the evening.

Her promise was still firmly in her mind and the danger of the situation with Lecter, were the only things that kept her from decking the both of them and Chilton.

She did see an unimpressed stare focus on the two from their host when he heard the tail end of the conversation. They scurried away as he approached, her helmet and coat in one arm.

“I do hope your evening was a pleasant one, Lady Black.”

“The food and wine were delicious.” She demurred. His eyes focused back on the two, narrowed in offense.

Well, if he had to kill anyone…

“I do hope the rest of your evening extends to more pleasant company, my lady.” He offers genially, taking her hand for a very courtly kiss to the back of her hand.

“And you as well… Lord Lecter?”

“Count.” He acknowledged with a nod.

“Count Lecter.” She gave him a shallow curtsy and a polite goodnight, exiting once he had focused his attentions on someone else.

Out in the cool fall evening air, she could finally breathe again.

It felt like being released from the mouth of hell, the devil at her back.

She could feel that compulsive urge creeping over shoulders. She needed to leave, now.

Popping on her helmet and jacket, she risked one last glance at the house, then devil himself standing in the window chatting with lingering guests, then sped off towards her apartment.

Chapter Text

The door clicked shut behind her, wards raising with a reassuring hum. Holly didn’t even bother turning on the lights. She collapsed against the entryway wall, helmet still in her hands, jacket half sliding off her shoulders. Her chest seized, each breath coming in stuttering gasps.

Safe. She was safe.
Merlin, she was safe—

The mantra didn’t stop her lungs from locking up. She slid to the floor, dragging her knees to her chest, forehead pressed hard against them. For the first time in a very long time, in the safety of her own home, she let herself break.

---

A memory, sharp as glass.

Tom in simple shirtsleeves, stirring honey into her tea with tender care. “Drink, love. It’ll help.”

Another friend gone missing, the fourth name in headlines in the Prophet. Holly trembling in their kitchen.

He’d wrapped her in his arms, murmuring soft reassurances into her hair. “You’re safe, I’d never let anything happen to you.”

---

A painful sob tore out of her throat. She choked it back as best she could as another memory surged to the forefront.

Tom leaning against the sofa, wand in hand, smirking as she tried to fix the radio reception with charms that always fritzed on her.

His laugh, low and genuine, poured into the living room.

It was so ordinary. So normal.

---

Her sobs turned to hiccupping through a fresh wave of tears and bitter laughter.

She clutched her knees tighter, as though she were hugging someone else, a name tearing past her lips: “Draco-“

She bit down hard on her lip. Not him. It wasn’t him. Never him.

---

By the time she resurfaced, her throat raw and her face sticky with salt, the panic and grief had faded into something quieter, more mornful. She stumbled to the kitchen, kicking her shoes away with nary a care. She grabbed her bottle of firewhiskey, and took a heavy swig, ignoring the tumblers sitting in front of her. The first swallow burned, but steadied her trembling hand.

Another sip, then another, then another. Her breathing, her pulse, finally steady.

Wiping at her mouth, she swore not to get involved.

Lecter was brilliant, yes. Charismatic, sharp, fascinating in ways that sparked against her own intellect. But brilliance had nearly killed her once before, and she’d be damned if she let it sink its teeth into her again.

Will was dangerous too, she knew that. He had the raw potential, the simmering darkness—but he was still fighting it. Still human. Still kind enough to sit in the dirt with his dogs, kind enough to see her as something other than prey.

Lecter didn’t fight his darkness. He fed it. Served it with wine pairings and applause.

Holly took another long drink, fire burning down her throat until it steadied her pulse. No matter how clever the devil was, she wasn’t going to sit at his table twice.

She had Will. She had his dogs. That was enough.

And if death came knocking again, she’d be ready this time.

---

The café outside Elk Grove was the sort of place built to look inviting—brick façade, chalkboard menus, the smell of burnt espresso wafting out the door. Holly picked a table on the patio where she could see both the entrance and the street. Out here, away from her wards, she felt exposed, but better to be exposed in the open than cornered.

The girl arrived ten minutes late. Dark hair tucked behind her ears, cardigan two sizes too big, she carried herself with the nervous watchfulness of someone who knew she was prey. Holly recognized her instantly—Abigail Hobbs.

Abigail slid into the chair across from her, eyes darting toward the door, then back to Holly. “He dropped me off,” she said quickly, voice low. “He’s at the hotel. I don’t have long.”

“Your father?” Holly asked, already knowing.

A stiff nod. Then the words tumbled out like she’d been holding them too long. “Nobody knows yet. Not the FBI, not the locals. But he’s the Minnesota Shrike. I’ve been with him when he—” Her breath hitched. She pressed her lips together, forced herself to continue. “The college visits, that’s how he picks them. Girls who look like me. He makes me go talk to them first.”

Holly’s stomach twisted, but she stayed very still. If she flinched, the girl might shatter.

“You wrote about it,” Abigail said suddenly, eyes sharp on her. “About Tom. About how you saw the little cracks, the way he smoothed over things that didn’t add up. How he made you part of it without you even knowing.”

The name landed like a knife between her ribs. For a moment Holly was in another life—warm kitchen light, the sound of a record spinning, Tom’s voice soft and steady as he told her not to worry about the missing friend. His hand on hers, reassuring. His smile hiding the grave he’d already dug.

She swallowed hard, grounding herself in the scrape of the café chair beneath her and the taste of bitter coffee on her tongue.

Abigail leaned in, whisper-urgent. “That’s what he does to me. My father. He uses me to get to them. And everyone thinks I’m safe because I’m his daughter, but…” Her throat worked. She looked down at her hands. “Killers who start with substitutes—they go back to the original eventually. I’ve watched your lectures. All his victims look like me. It’s just a matter of time.”

There it was. The truth laid bare. Not fear of strangers, but of the man who tucked her into bed.

Holly wanted to reach across the table, shake the universe until it gave this girl a different fate. Instead, she kept her voice steady. “You see it. That’s what’s going to save you. Most of his victims didn’t.”

Abigail’s gaze lifted, wet but determined.

“Don’t ignore that instinct,” Holly pressed. “If you feel the ground shift under you—run. Don’t wait to see if it settles. Don’t give him the chance to decide. You’re not a lamb. Don’t let him treat you like one.”

For a moment, the girl just breathed, clutching Holly’s words like a lifeline. Holly felt the echo of her own survival—the choices she’d made too late, the ones she still regretted.

Abigail finally nodded. “I just want to survive.”

“So do it.” Holly leaned back, a bitter smile tugging at her mouth. “Trust yourself. Even if no one else does.”

The door chimed behind them. Abigail startled, already half-rising, eyes darting toward the street.

“Go,” Holly said softly. “Before he comes looking.”

The girl slipped away, vanishing into the crowd of students. Holly stayed where she was, staring into her cooling coffee, her mind already spiraling to another predator with clever eyes and refined tastes.

Hobbs. Riddle. Lecter.

And somewhere in the middle of it, her.

---

Holly was buried in the semester’s first avalanche of paperwork—student records, add/drop forms, the usual bureaucratic death by papercut—when her office door burst open without so much as a knock.

“Excellent news!” Nick announced, striding in like the place belonged to him.

Holly didn’t look up immediately, only set her pen down with deliberate care. “You do know doors are for knocking, right? Or is that an outdated social custom now?

Nick ignored the barb, planting himself in the chair opposite her desk. He was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction. “Lecter has made a donation to Elk Grove. A generous one. Library fund, no less.”

Her stomach sank. She kept her expression neutral, flipping one of the files closed. “Is that so?”

“And,” he went on, grinning wider, “Ellen Komeda has asked to sit in on one of your lectures.”

That got her attention. Holly blinked, finally meeting his gaze. “Komeda?”

“The Komeda,” Nick said, savoring the words. “You should be over the moon. Between Lecter’s check and Komeda’s curiosity, this is a golden ticket. You’re about to be a very popular woman.” His mouth twitched, and then, too quickly to be casual, he added, “Not that you aren’t already. With certain people.”

Holly’s brow arched. The comment hung there, pointed and possessive, and she let the silence stretch until Nick coughed and shifted back in his seat.

Holly leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. Ellen had been genuinely kind to her at the party—interested in her work, almost disarmingly so. That wasn’t what worried her.

What worried her was the line between Komeda’s curiosity and Lecter’s influence. If the one came attached to the other, then Holly wasn’t circling his orbit anymore. She was being pulled into it.

Nick, of course, noticed none of this. He was too busy outlining a future she hadn’t asked for. “You play this right, and your career skyrockets. Department chair within a few years, easy. Just imagine.”

“Imagine,” Holly echoed, her voice dry as parchment.

Her gaze drifted to the wards humming faintly in the corner of her vision, the only thing that kept her hands steady. Hannibal Lecter didn’t give gifts—he baited traps. And Nick, blissfully oblivious, had just delivered one right to her desk.

“Excellent news,” she said again softly, though the words tasted like ash.

Chapter Text

Distracting herself by spending more time with Will turned out to be a fantastic tactic. The man was sarcastic, with dry, biting wit and also incredibly empathetic, not just with humans using his ability. But he deeply loved his dogs, it was hard to argue anything else.

Most of their time together was spent either on his property (fishing by the creek, wrestling with the dogs, teaching him to cook) or at a café or in between their campuses.

She had yet to stay the night. She was trying to trust Will, trying very hard, but old wounds ran deep.

Thankfully, Will seemed entirely okay with the speed their relationship was going Maybe he sensed her unease. Maybe he was as uncertain about this “normal relationship” thing as she was. Either way, this meant that they spent a lot of time talking about their daily lives, including their students.

“I swear, half the people in my class only take it for the special certification,” Will complained. “It’s like they aren’t even listening. Half of their essays read like Wikipedia vomited onto paper.”

Holly snickered. “I know! I have to teach an intro class this semester, and ninety percent of the students are only here because it’s required. I’d kill for a small group of analytical, curious students. Right now it’s just Gabrael showing up to ask meaningful questions.”

“Have you gotten to Dahmer yet?” he asked, sipping his coffee. “Half my students try to argue he ‘couldn’t help himself’ or that he was ‘a product of his environment.’” He scoffed. “As if hundreds of people before haven’t written that trying to defend his crimes. One of them even compared him to Frankenstein’s monster!”

Holly feigned solemnity. “Maybe they just wanted an excuse to rewatch the Kenneth Branagh movie. Tragic monster, shirtless Kenneth, ethics in science… checks the boxes.”

Will cracked a smile, exhaustion tugging at his face. She noticed how tired he always looked these days, almost sick. But she couldn’t say much; paranoia and stress were hitting her like a hammer.

As they continued to eat lunch, Holly let Will rant. About his students, neighbors, the FBI academy’s curriculum, the tacky new museum exhibit. She noted the animation in his hands, the rough edges of his voice when anger crept in, the softening in his eyes when they met hers.

It was dangerous, this comfort.

“Can I ask you something?” he said suddenly, leaning back, arms folded across his chest like he was bracing for something. “It might be a bit… insensitive.”

Holly blinked. “I mean, your free to ask. No promises I’ll answer. “

“Fair.” He huffed. “You mentioned someone reached out to you… thinking their father was a killer?”

She’d nearly forgotten she’d mentioned it. She tapped it against her plate, giving herself a moment. “We met in person last week. She’s… very convincing.”

“You believe her?”

“I believe that she believes it.” Holly hesitated. “I want to, to get her out of there, but…”

“There’s no evidence.” Will nodded sympathetically.

She agreed. “I can’t help her. Not beyond what I’ve already done. I probably won’t be able to help her without something drastic happening and I dread to know what that could be.” She sighed. “I want to go charging in, but I’ve learned the hard way that charging into things blind only gets you burned.”

Will let the silence stretch, eyes resting comfortingly on her. He obviously wanted to press, but didn’t.

“She has you,” he said instead.

Holly forced a smile. “She does. For what that’s worth.”

A lot less these days than she wanted to admit.

--

The rest of her day blurred into routine: lecture halls filled with undergrads dutifully scribbling notes as she dissected Bundy’s charm tactics, one-on-one advising sessions with students who thought they’d discovered the groundbreaking thesis on “female serial killers,” and the familiar grind of red pen bleeding across essays that treated Wikipedia like gospel.

Ellen Komeda lingered after one of her lectures, notebook in hand, sharp eyes alight with genuine curiosity. She had the air of a woman who had long ago decided that “eccentric” was far preferable to “boring.”

“I hope you don’t mind?” Ellen asked with the casual confidence of someone who already knew the answer.

“I welcome you to my lectures, Ellen.” Holly smiled, genuinely this time. “What did you think?”

“You don’t flinch up there,” Ellen said, tilting her head as though Holly were a character she was sketching into her next novel.

“Practice,” Holly replied dryly. “That, or I ran out of flinches years ago.”

Ellen chuckled and scribbled something in her notebook. “Delicious. I’ve spent half my career trying to imagine how people would talk about murder if they weren’t horrified, and here you are, doing it like it’s the weather report. You’re a dreadful inspiration, Professor.”

“Glad to be of service.” Holly arched a brow. “Though I’d rather not see myself thinly disguised in your next paperback.”

“Oh, nonsense.” Ellen waved a bejeweled hand. “You’ll be in hardcover.”

That earned a startled laugh from Holly. They lingered longer than expected, trading book recommendations, griping about over-dramatic undergraduates, and joking about who would make the worst detective in their department. By the time Ellen finally swept out, Holly caught herself almost… relieved.

Maybe friendship wasn’t a total lost cause.

--

Her apartment greeted her with silence and wards humming like a comforting heartbeat. She locked the door behind her, hung up her jacket, and exhaled. Home. Safe.

She slipped her shoes off and plodded into the kitchen, ready to fix a quick dinner for herself.

Then she saw it.

A box. Sitting neatly on her kitchen table.

Her stomach dropped like a stone. For one choking second, panic rose in her throat. Was it Skeeter? Hannibal? An ex-Death Eater with too much free time? She was already reaching for her wand-

Right. Broken. Gone.

Her hands shook as she approached, every nerve screaming wrong, wrong, wrong. Then she spotted the note:

Delivered to Greengrass Estate. Already cleared. Don’t know what to make of this. – DG

Daphne.

The relief made her knees weak. She slid into a chair and opened the box carefully, prepared for… she wasn’t sure what.

On top were old newspapers. The Daily Prophet. The headlines varied from politics to fluff pieces, but Holly could see, in small text near the bottom, an article on each one detailing the disappearance of another witch or wizard. When Tom had been active.

She flipped through them with trembling hands, all of them names she knew by heart.

Underneath the papers were photographs. Wizarding photos of her and Tom, titles scribbled neatly: Diagon Alley Walk, March 8, Fortescue’s, April 10, Park, June 16. Always with him at her side. She avoided his face in the photos, focusing on her own. She couldn’t face him yet. Not now. Her own face in the photos wasn’t much better, though. In each successive image, her exhaustion sunk deeper and deeper into her frame, hollowing her with each image.

Then there were the letters.

The first few read like normal fan mail, as much as you can give to a killer:

August 8^th, 20X8

Dear Yew Killer,

I have been following the news about your work with great interest. There is a certain level of artistry to your methods, and I find myself compelled to understand the mind behind it. I realize that this may be ill advised to write, but I cannot help but feel as though there is a brilliance to you. The care you take with your gifts, left as they are, shine with beauty,

If you are able to write back, I would consider it a rare privilege.

Yours,
A Curious Admirer

She flipped a few pages.

October 22^nd, 20X8

Dearest Yew Killer,

I cannot stop thinking of you. Your elegance astounds me. Though we have never met, I feel so very connected to you. I wonder, do you ever feel as though someone out there truly understands you? Perhaps I could be that someone.

Yours, always watching

Another few pages flipped.

March 13^th, 20X9

My Beloved,

I see the victims, and I understand why you do it. They cannot comprehend you, but I can. We will be together. Nothing can stop us. Not the Ministry, not the fools around you. Even the girl… she doesn’t matter. She will not get in our way.

Forever yours, in mind and spirit

Holly wanted to vomit. She skipped to the last one.

July 31^st, 20X9

My Dearest, My Only,

You were made for me. I was made for you. Every day I wait, longing to join your world of quiet perfection. That girl? Merely a shadow in our path. I will ensure she vanishes when the time comes. We are the truth. We are inevitable. I am yours eternally.

Yours eternally, as it was always meant to be

Holly’s stomach knotted, bile rising. She could barely breathe. This wasn’t just obsession. This was planning, intimate knowledge. They knew who he was. And they didn’t care about her. She was expendable.

She pushed the letters aside as if they might bite. Only two items remained.

One was a small black container. A wand box. Trembling hands opened it to reveal what she already suspected. Her wand. Snapped in two, phoenix feather peaking out one side.

The last item was an official piece of parchment. Her sentencing, her punishment.

Ministry of Magic
Office of the Minister
Official Proclamation

In the matter of Holly Potter, formerly of the wizarding community, the Ministry of Magic has conducted a full and thorough investigation into her involvement with the criminal known as the “Yew Killer.”

It is the judgment of the Ministry that Ms. Potter acted as an accomplice in these heinous crimes, through negligence and by failing to report the criminal activity, despite prior knowledge of suspicious circumstances. While no evidence suggests she actively committed murder, her actions—or lack thereof—facilitated the continued operation of this individual.

Considering Ms. Potter’s prior extraordinary service to the wizarding community during the Battle of Hogwarts and her contributions to magical research, the Ministry has exercised its discretion in sentencing.

Sentence:

• Immediate snapping of Ms. Potter’s wand, rendering her incapable of performing magic.
• Full sealing of her magical abilities, as per Article 347(b) of the Ministry Magical Law Enforcement Act.
• Permanent banishment from the wizarding community, with no right to magical residence, employment, or interaction with magical institutions.

This sentence is to take effect immediately, and the Ministry shall enforce strict monitoring to ensure compliance. Any violation of the terms of banishment shall be treated as a serious offense under wizarding law.

By order of the Minister for Magic,
Zacharias Smith
Office of the Minister, Ministry of Magic
Date: August 12^th, 20X9

Her throat constricted. She pressed a hand to her mouth, fighting bile, her eyes burning hot. How in Merlin’s name did they get this?!

She shoved the lid back, pushed the box away, and sat back heavily. It took her three shots of firewhiskey before she could breathe again.

So many people were trying to fuck with her. Skeeter, Hannibal, the admirer. All of them threading her life into their games. She was done.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes. Opening them, she made up her mind.

She started drafting a letter to Daphne.

Chapter Text

Garlic and onions hung heavy in the air by the time Holly leaned against the counter, radio propped beside her. Wizarding wireless was rarely her choice of background noise, but tonight was different. Tonight, Daphne’s voice cut through the small kitchen, clipped and sharp as a blade.

“…what we’ve uncovered so far is only the beginning. A benefactor, who will remain unnamed, entrusted my firm to investigate unusual gains among certain Ministry officials. We are not talking pocket change. We are talking fortunes. Fortunes made off bills and convictions that disproportionately harmed those already vulnerable—Muggleborns, half-bloods, families without deep ties to the Wizengamot. Fortunes that should never have existed.”

Lee Jordan’s voice cut in, practiced and warm, though tight around the edges: “And these gains, are you suggesting they’re tied to the rumors? The whispers of Death Eaters still slithering around the Ministry corridors?”

A pause on Daphne’s end; silence that said everything. “I’m suggesting corruption has no expiration date,” she replied coolly. “Whether it wears a mask or a Ministry pin is irrelevant. We intend to drag it into the light.”

Holly stirred the sauce, smiling faintly at the evasive tone that somehow managed to scream yes louder than a direct accusation. When the interview wrapped, she clicked the dial off, plating food at three settings on the table just as the crack of Apparition echoed in the flat.

“Merlin, you actually cooked,” Blaise announced, shedding his coat with a grin. “And here I thought your idea of dinner was takeaway and wine.”

Daphne smirked as she slipped into the seat Holly had pulled out for her. “We must be very loved tonight.”

“Or very pitied,” Holly countered, but her smile lingered as they dug in.

Conversation inevitably circled back to the broadcast. Daphne accepted the praise with a flick of her hand, but her eyes were sharp. “Lee did his part well. He’s been waiting years to take a swing at the Ministry. Never forgave them for the Yew Killer, you know. George’s death- and then the way they handled you after.”

“‘Handled,’” Holly repeated dryly, raising her glass. “That’s a polite way of putting it.”

Blaise leaned forward, “Smith’s an obvious suspect,” Blaise said, knife tapping against his plate. “Never met a chance to profit he didn’t crawl into bed with. Though honestly, Holly, I always thought he was more weasel than wolf.”

“He was opportunistic,” Holly agreed. “Petty. Not bright enough to orchestrate half of what’s been happening.”

“Then there’s Creevey,” Blaise added. “Still bitter about Colin, isn’t he?”

The name tugged at something unpleasant in Holly’s chest. “Bitter doesn’t begin to cover it. But grudges don’t usually come with profit margins.”

They went down the list: half-familiar names, half-forgotten ones. Most were dead, missing, or had fled overseas. Holly let the rhythm of it soothe her, corruption dismantled in the safe cocoon of her flat.

When Blaise uncorked a dark bottle his mother had sent - “for you, specifically, don’t argue” - the mood shifted. The first glass still tasted of politics, but by the third they were laughing at Blaise’s mother’s latest husband.

“One foot in the grave already?” Holly teased.

“Please,” Daphne scoffed, “the man is basically begging for it.”

Laughter spilled into the room, wine and warmth blurring the edges. Daphne leaned across the table, eyes glittering. “So. Tell us all about Will.”

Holly groaned, but the ribbing was gentle, affectionate. For the first time in weeks, she let herself lean into it.

--

A week later, hope carried. Will showed up at her office, standing awkwardly in the doorway as Holly finished her paperwork. She felt the knot in her chest ease just at the sight of him.

Then Nick arrived.

“We have another fundraiser, Holly,” he said, gliding in without invitation. “Your presence is practically expected, and-”

The thinly veiled posturing set her teeth on edge. His eyes slid toward Will, sharp with misplaced claim. Will frowned, confusion plain, but stayed silent - only making the air heavier.

“No,” Holly said flatly, shoving her stack of forms aside. “I won’t be answering emails. I won’t be answering calls. Not all weekend, Nick. Goodbye.”

She dragged Will out before Nick could sputter, not breathing freely again until they hit the cool night air.

“What was that?” Will asked as they walked toward the car.

“He’s… like that,” Holly muttered, irritation knotting her shoulders. “He's never asked me out. Never took a single nonverbal cue. He just goes around, staking ground he's never owned.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Will said.

“Beyond.” She exhaled, already pushing the thought away as the restaurant lights came into view.

Inside, the tension melted into warmth. The place was dimly lit, hushed, with just enough candlelight to paint Will’s face in soft shadows. Holly found herself watching the curve of his mouth when he thought, the way his eyes unfocused when he reached for a profile, like he was staring at something only he could see.

They built the Portland killer piece by piece. Will sketching motive, Holly challenging him, volleying theories across the table as naturally as breathing. At one point he leaned in over his glass, emphasizing a point, and Holly realized they’d been talking in low, conspiratorial tones, heads bent close as though the whole restaurant might be listening.

“Stalker,” Will murmured, eyes fixed on hers. “Obsessive, but organized. He wants control more than blood.”

“Or both,” Holly countered softly, chin propped against her hand. “The ritual is the control. It’s not the killing - it’s what he makes of it.”

Will’s lips curved, not quite a smile. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

The silence stretched; heavy, but not uncomfortable. Candlelight flickered in his eyes, and Holly felt her pulse skip.

The waiter arrived then, clearing plates neither of them had noticed emptying. Holly leaned back, breathless from nothing more than sitting too close.

When they stepped out into the night, the restaurant’s glow still clung to them. Holly tugged her coat tighter, not entirely from the cold.

“You know,” Will said as they walked, “that profile we built. It wasn’t half bad.”

“Not half bad?” Holly arched a brow. “I’ll try to contain my swelling pride.”

He huffed a laugh. “Fine. It was good. You see things I don’t.”

“Occupational hazard,” she said lightly, though his words curled warm in her chest.

The walk ended too quickly. At her building, she paused with keys in hand, reluctant to use them. Will lingered just behind, faint smile tugging at his mouth, like he’d been thinking the same thing.

“Thanks for tonight,” he said quietly.

“It was dinner, Will. You don’t have to thank me for eating food.”

“I’m not thanking you for the food.” His gaze caught hers, steady and unreadable.

Something in her throat went tight. She should look away, crack a joke. Instead, she leaned in—a fraction. He bent down at the same time, hesitant but sure, and when his lips brushed hers it felt less like choice and more like inevitability.

Brief. Barely there. But it left her heart hammering.

When they drew apart, his eyes flickered uncertain, bracing for regret.

“Not half bad,” Holly murmured.

Will laughed, soft and incredulous, and the sound unraveled her more than the kiss.

“I should let you get some rest,” he said reluctantly.

“Probably.” She didn’t move to unlock the door.

Silence lingered, comfortable, rare. Then Will stepped back, giving her space. “Goodnight, Holly.”

“Goodnight, Will.”

She slipped inside before she did something reckless, like kiss him again. The wards hummed to life, wrapping her in familiar safety. Only now, for the first time in years, she realized she didn’t need them to feel it.

Leaning against the door, she let out a slow breath. The kitchen still smelled faintly of stew, dishes stacked neatly by the sink. It grounded her. Reminded her she had people, her people, who believed in her.

But it was the ghost of that kiss that lingered, stubborn as a curse.

She pushed off from the door, eyes inevitably drawn to the wand box on the shelf. The wood gleamed dark in the low light, unassuming, harmless. Inside lay her wand in two neat pieces, phoenix feather curling like a vein.

The sight should have been numbing by now. It wasn’t.

She forced her gaze away, clinging to the warmth of Will’s lips against hers. But the echo of splintered wood lingered sharp in her mind, a reminder that no kiss—no matter how sweet—could erase the past waiting in the dark.

Chapter Text

Abigail was already waiting when Holly arrived, her hands clenched around a mug like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. She looked pale, brittle, and about ten years older than she was supposed to.

Holly slid into the booth across from her and shrugged off her coat, giving her a once-over. “Right, you hauled me out of bed for a crisis. Let’s hear it.”

Abigail gave a short, nervous laugh, then bit her lip. “Do you ever worry you’re… becoming him?”

Holly didn’t need to ask who him was. She leaned back, considering, then said flatly, “Every bloody day.”

Abigail blinked, startled at the bluntness. Holly let the silence stretch just long enough before softening her tone. “But surviving a monster doesn’t turn you into one. It just means you’ve got scars- and a better sense of where to hide the knives.”

That earned the faintest ghost of a smile, quick and gone. Abigail twisted her fingers in her lap, shoulders tight. “I don’t even know who I really am anymore. I’m supposed to be looking at colleges, but- what if I don’t belong anywhere? What if this- what if people can see it on me?”

Holly snorted, leaning forward on her elbows. “Newsflash: no one knows what they’re doing at eighteen. Half of them are just pretending really hard. So you’re not alone in an identity crisis. College isn’t the end goal, it’s glorified wandering with term papers. Pick something tolerable, change your mind later, and ignore anyone who acts like they’ve got it figured out.”

Abigail stared at her, then shook her head, a laugh escaping despite herself. “That’s… not exactly what the guidance counselor said.”

“Yeah, well,” Holly shrugged, smirking, “guidance counselors haven’t lived through a war and a serial killer. I win on experience alone.”

The laugh lingered, turning into the first real smile Holly had seen on her in months. Small, but alive. Holly let it sit, the silence companionable instead of suffocating.

“You’re good at this,” Abigail said finally, almost accusing, like she hadn’t expected Holly to know how to handle her.

“Don’t spread it around,” Holly warned dryly, but her chest ached in a way she hadn’t felt in years. Protectiveness. A dangerous, inconvenient fondness.

Abigail took another sip of her coffee, steadier now, but her eyes dropped to the table as she whispered: “Sometimes I think… maybe I need someone to tell me what to be. Like if I don’t pick for myself, then I can’t pick wrong. Maybe then I wouldn’t turn into him.”

Something cold settled in Holly’s gut. She reached across the table and set her hand over Abigail’s, firm. “Listen to me. You don’t let anyone tell you who to be. That’s how monsters are made: when people surrender themselves to someone else’s idea of them. You’re not your father’s echo. Don’t you ever let someone convince you otherwise.”

Abigail nodded quickly, but there was a flicker in her eyes - something unsettled, hungry for the kind of certainty Holly couldn’t give.

For once, Abigail looked a little less haunted. But Holly, watching that flicker linger beneath the surface, knew the wrong voice at the wrong time could undo everything.

And though she’d never admit it aloud, she feared it was only a matter of time before that voice found her.

--

Holly regretted ever going into teaching a few days later, when Nick cornered her into attending an orchestral performance under the pretense of networking.

Networking, as it turned out, was code for sitting through an endless parade of violins while resisting the urge to commit homicide during intermission. She parked herself at the open bar instead, determined to stay just buzzed enough not to climb the stage and cut the conductor’s hands off - or any of the campaigning politicians in attendence.

By her fourth glass of wine, she’d found the perfect balancing point between fuzzy warmth and sharp edges. Naturally, that was when the Devil himself arrived.

“Lady Black,” Hannibal Lecter greeted smoothly, slipping into the seat beside her as if he’d been invited. “I hadn’t expected to see you at something so… cultivated.”

Holly raised her glass in a mock-toast. “Tragic, isn’t it? You’ll have to start thinking of me as respectable. What brings you to my company, Count Lecter?”

His smile was precise, a scalpel rather than warmth. “I have recently read a study just out of Johns Hopkins- attempting to quantify morality under duress. I wished to enquire your thoughts on the matter.”

She blinked, then barked a laugh. “Of course you’d bring up a study about human suffering and morality while the brass section tries to kill us.” She tipped her glass toward him, words spilling easier with the wine. “Trying to quantify morality? That’s like trying to measure humor with a bloody yardstick. You can design whatever test you want. People will always lie when they think their soul, or the appearance of it, is on the line.”

His eyes sharpened. “So you would argue morality is entirely performative?”

“I’d argue it’s situational. What people do matters more than what they say. Words are cheap. Actions are the bills that come due.”

“They framed it as evidence of inherent cruelty,” Hannibal observed. “You disagree.”

“Of course I bloody disagree.” She was louder than she meant to be, but she didn’t care. “People aren’t cruel by nature. They’re weak. They want someone to tell them what to do, and if that someone happens to be a right bastard, well…” She caught herself, realizing she’d echoed something Abigail had said two days ago, and took another sip to cover it. “Doesn’t mean they’re damned, just means they’re scared. And a little stupid.”

His gaze lingered on her, dark and unreadable. “So, you believe we are not responsible for our choices, but for the authority we surrender them to?”

Holly rolled the stem of her glass between her fingers, tipsy enough to admit, “Something like that. God knows I’ve let worse men than you tell me what to be.”

It was meant as a flippant joke, but Hannibal’s gaze sharpened, and she felt the unease of having revealed something she hadn’t meant to.

He shifted tack with practiced ease. “And what of your present… entanglements? Surely you don’t surrender so easily now.”

She squinted at him, suspicious, then laughed. “Entanglements. Christ. If you mean dating, yeah - I’ve got someone. Smartest man I’ve ever met. Handsome, too.” She smirked, loose-lipped and unfiltered. “Will Graham. You’d like him. He’s got the same broody bastard thing you’ve got going, but less… posh.”

“Will Graham,” Hannibal repeated, rolling the name like he was tasting it.

“Mm. Don’t get any ideas.” She wagged her glass before draining it. “He’s mine.”

She laughed at her own joke, but Hannibal’s expression remained unreadable, something calculating flickering beneath the surface.

The orchestra struck the first notes to call the audience back. Holly excused herself with a careless wave, already forgetting half of what she’d said.

Hannibal, of course, remembered everything.

--

The orchestra swelled to its grand finale, all pomp and thunder. Holly clapped along with everyone else, still laughing at some half-formed joke about brass instruments. She didn’t notice the way Hannibal’s hands stilled instead of applauding, his eyes fixed not on the stage but on her profile, flushed with wine and carelessness.

She thought she had escaped the evening with nothing worse than a hangover.

Hannibal knew better.

As the audience rose, his smile was faint, practiced, yet his gaze lingered with a predator’s patience. Holly Black had just gifted him a name. Will Graham.

And Hannibal Lecter never wasted a gift.

Chapter Text

Holly stepped into the FBI training wing, holding the box lunch she’d made for Will. Over the past two weeks, they’d spent nearly every lunch together, and when schedules didn’t align, she made sure he still had something home-cooked waiting on him. Today, when she walked in he was talking with a man she didn’t know – tall, broad, with the kind of presence that made a room fall quiet, even without saying a word.

Not wanting to interrupt their conversation, Holly set the lunch on his desk and scribbled a quick note: See you tonight, luv.

Will saw her out of the corner of his eye. He glanced away from the other man and gave a small smile, his usual quiet warmth, before returning to his quiet discussion. Holly offered a little wave goodbye and then walked to her car, already shifting her mind to her afternoon lecture on unsolved serial killers, including the Zodiac, the Axeman of New Orleans, and the Chesapeake Ripper – he encompassed her favorite mix of history, forensic science, and psychological breakdown.

An hour later, while she was finishing up some last minute prep, her phone rang. Will’s voice came through, a little tight but steady. “I’m going to be working late on a new profile. I probably won’t get back for until late.”

Holly felt the familiar swell of protectiveness – and affection. “No worries,” she said. “I’ll just borrow your kitchen and make something there. I’ll let the dogs out, too. Call me when you’re around thirty minutes away.”

“Thanks,” he said, and she could hear the relief in his voice.

The lecture hall buzzed as usual when Holly arrived, students settling with the restless hum of pens and laptops. At the back, two people caught her eye. Ellen Komeda, notebook in hand, leaned forward with bright-eyed eagerness. Beside her sat a man whose calm was almost unnatural, every movement deliberate. Hannibal Lecter. His presence was measured, deliberate, as though the rest of the room existed in fast-forward while he alone kept time.

The suit he wore should have been ridiculous – too bold, too patterned – but somehow, impossibly, it worked. Holly forced herself to look away. She needed to focus on the Chesapeake Ripper.

“Five years ago,” she began, standing to the side of her podium, “a body was found in Bethesda. A woman was discovered in a local pond.” The click of the remote brought up the image: a woman floating on her back, dressed in a gown, flowers limp in her hand, hair spreading like a halo. A few students gasped. “You may notice something familiar about this image. Some of you certainly have.”

The next slide appeared. More surprise followed. “Ophelia, John Everett Millais.” Holly gestured between the two images, her voice steady. “The victim was not merely left here. She was staged – posed to evoke one of the most famous depictions of Shakespeare’s tragic heroine. It was, unmistakably, deliberate.”

She advanced to the next case. “A year later, another body was found. This time in a townhouse in Georgetown. Male victim, mid-forties. The killer went to significant lengths to replicate the Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian.” The slide changed again – photograph of the victim, his body pierced and suspended, juxtaposed with the Renaissance painting. Gasps rippled through the room. Holly ignored them, keeping her tone even. “This is not random. This is not an outburst of violence. It’s a production. Whoever the Chesapeake Ripper is, he has both medical knowledge and an unusually high level of cultural literacy. His killings are as much performance as violence.”

She let that hang for a moment, scanning their faces – the shock, the queasy fascination. Part of her understood it. What sort of person looks at a human being and sees a canvas? A surgeon? An artist? Both? Someone with enough patience to compose beauty out of horror – and enough detachment to walk away unseen.

“Notice also the spacing between these crimes,” she continued, shifting to a timeline chart. “Most serial killers speed up over time. They get sloppy. They escalate. But the Ripper doesn’t. His murders are years apart. That tells us something: he’s not driven by compulsion. He’s driven by choice. He waits for the right moment, and only then does he act. And that’s exactly why he’s so hard to catch.”

She brought up her final slide. “The Chesapeake Ripper kills not because he has to, but because he wants to. That’s what makes him so dangerous. As long as he’s in control of when and where, investigators will always be reacting after the fact.”

Holly paused, letting the words sink in. Outwardly she stayed detached, but inwardly, the same question stirred as always: What kind of man could live like this, walk among us, and still return home to dinner as though he hadn’t spent the afternoon arranging a body into art?

“Questions?” she asked, her tone brisk once more.

Gabrael was one of the first to raise her hand – always one of her favorite students. Bright, sharp. When she spoke, it was precise and careful.

Gabrael’s hand shot up. Bright, sharp, always thoughtful. “Professor – if the victims don’t match each other, but the staging does, how do you think the killer picks them? Is it about who they are, or just how they can fit the artwork?”

Holly nodded slowly. “Good. You’re picking up on the difference between what we call M.O. and signature. M.O. – modus operandi – is the how: how the victim was chosen, how the crime was carried out. Signature is the why: the artistic references, the ritual touches, the stuff that isn’t necessary to commit the murder but tells us about the killer’s psychology. With the Ripper, the staging is signature. He chooses victims who can ‘fit the role’ – not necessarily because of who they are, but because they’re usable for the scene he wants to create.”

A few students scribbled furiously. Others shifted, uneasy.

Gabrael pressed: “So what does that tell us about him?”

“Organization, patience, and cultural awareness,” Holly answered. “He is deliberate. He understands the imagery he’s invoking – so he’s likely well-traveled, well-read, or been classically trained. He’s able to stage these intricate scenes without interruption, which means careful planning and organizing. He knows exactly what he’s doing and takes his time. That’s why investigators have so little to work with – there’s no chaos, no panic, just carefully curated scenes.”

At the back, a boy slouched in his chair, smirking. He raised his hand lazily. “So, like, does he take trophies? Y’know, like stole something from them? Or does something to them?” He grinned at the ripple of disgust from his classmates.

Holly’s tone flattened. “Yes. The Ripper sometimes removes organs, usually ones that match the art reference. As for the rest of your question,” she levels him with an even look, “we are all adults here. I think what you mean to ask is ‘does he follow the criminal pathology of sexually abusing them, alive or dead?’ The short answer is most likely, no. The evidence doesn’t point that way. And before anyone laughs about it, let me be clear: when we talk about ‘trophies,’ we’re talking about human beings. Victims. The moment we turn them into punchlines, we forget that.”

A few students shifted, not maintaining eye contact. The smirk vanished; the boy ducked his head. Holly moved on.

Ellen Komeda, who had watched the indirect reaming with rapt attention – pen in hand, eyes alight – leaned forward. Her question was clinical, professional in its own way.

“Professor, when you’re building a profile on a case like this, do you start with the victims or with the art references? And do investigators bring in art historians to help with interpretation?”

Now that was a smart question. Holly softened her tone. “We usually start with the victims – their lives, routines, relationships. That’s victimology, and it tells us why someone was vulnerable or chosen. Then we look at the staging, because that gives us clues about the killer himself – his education, worldview, even his socioeconomic status. And yes, specialists get involved. In this case, art historians were consulted, because staging like this isn’t random. It’s deliberate, and it can give us insight into the killer’s intentions.”

Ellen scribbled furiously, delighted. Holly almost smiled. For all the macabre subject matter, the woman’s enthusiasm was infectious.

“Any other questions?” Silence rang as students avoided eye contact. “Very well. Let’s move on to the Zodiac Killer…”

The lecture ended over an hour later. Students filed out, chattering in low voices, some lingering to whisper about the images still fresh in their minds. Ellen approached first, eager as always, notebook clutched like a lifeline. “I’d love to pick your brain more about profiles,” she said. “For a character in my next novel. I want it to feel authentic.”

Holly humored her for a few minutes, indulging the questions with patient precision, before sending her off with a kind smile. She began stacking her papers, the lecture hall finally thinning.

That was when she noticed him. Hannibal Lecter, still seated, hands folded with unnerving stillness. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t tap a pen or shuffle his notes. He simply watched, calm and composed, as though he had been waiting for her all along.

When she glanced up again, he rose and moved closer, his steps unhurried.

“You seem fascinated,” he said, voice low, almost intimate in the quiet room. “Tell me, is it the killers themselves you study, or the moral calculus behind their actions?”

Holly slid a paper into her bag, stalling for a breath. “Both,” she admitted carefully. “What draws me is the moment of decision. Choice. People act in ways they don’t expect of themselves. Sometimes horrifying ways. That gap between what we say we value and what we actually do – that’s where the truth is.”

His lips curved in a faint, unreadable smile. “Surprise… and yet predictably so. We see only what we wish to see. Isn’t morality just another filter? A lens we impose?”

She tilted her head, wary but intrigued. “It’s not just a lens. It’s a boundary. People cross it, yes, but it matters. Otherwise, everything would collapse into chaos.”

He stepped a little closer, his presence carrying a quiet gravity. “And yet… what is morality when it falters under pressure? Suppose someone has the chance to prevent harm, but doing so would endanger their own life. If they remain still, is that inaction innocent? Or is it simply another kind of violence?”

Holly’s pulse quickened. She tapped a pen against the desk. “That depends. Morality isn’t clean-cut. It’s situational. People assign guilt in neat boxes, but real choices don’t fit that way. Sometimes it isn’t right or wrong – it’s survival, or desperation.”

His eyes flickered with something sharper, though his voice remained soft. “And if desperation harms the innocent?”

She swallowed, refusing to look away. “Then you bear responsibility. Consequences matter, even if you didn’t intend them. But intention still has weight. Malice is not the same as necessity.”

For a moment, silence stretched. Then Hannibal tilted his head, gaze fixed on her as though she were a specimen. “And when those you care for are threatened? Do you measure by abstract principle – or by what you’re willing to risk for them?”

Holly felt a flicker in her chest, the coil of protectiveness she always carried for Will, for Abigail. She glanced down at the papers she was stacking. “You weigh the people in your life differently. You act harder, faster, more recklessly sometimes. But it isn’t always fair. It isn’t always measured. You just… act.”

His smile returned, faint but deliberate. “So you agree, then: morality bends in the hands of love and fear. It is not universal. It is circumstantial.”

Her jaw tightened. “It shouldn’t be.”

“But it is,” he countered gently. “We are all guided by attachments, Miss Black. By passions. And in the end, our choices are not weighed on an impartial scale. They are written in the flesh of those we protect – or those we sacrifice.”

Holly’s breath caught, the weight of his words pressing heavier than she wanted to admit. She busied herself with stacking papers, as though neat piles might anchor her unease.

“You speak of action as though it absolves you,” he murmured, stepping back at last, his tone one of almost fatherly curiosity. “But action and restraint are both choices. And every choice leaves its mark, whether or not we see it at first.”

She forced a small, neutral smile, though the prickle at her neck lingered. He was too calm, too certain, as if he already knew her answer before she spoke. And for the first time that day, Holly felt the unsettling suspicion that she was the one being studied.

Holly’s fingers tightened on her pen, the familiar weight grounding her. “You make it sound as if morality is meaningless.”

Hannibal’s head tilted, the faintest suggestion of amusement in his expression. “Not meaningless. Merely… adaptive. A tool. Masks we wear to belong, to be accepted. Society demands one face, but when circumstances change – when survival or love or ambition press against us – the mask slips. And then we discover what we are without it.”

She frowned, uneasy. “That sounds like a justification.”

“It is an observation,” he replied smoothly. “You have seen this yourself, have you not? Students who cheat, patients who lie, friends who betray. They all believed in their principles, until tested. Principles are ornamental until they cost something.”

Her chest tightened. She wanted to argue, to push back, but part of her knew he was right. Too many nights replaying choices she’d made, the people she couldn’t save. Circumstances had bent her morals more than once.

“And what about you?” she asked, sharp with deflection. “Do you wear masks, Dr. Lecter?”

His smile was small, deliberate. “Don’t we all?” He leaned ever so slightly closer, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. “The only question is whether we wear them so others cannot see us – or so we cannot see ourselves.”

The words sank in, uncomfortably precise. Holly swallowed, throat dry, forcing her gaze down to her papers as though order could disguise the sudden weight in her chest.

“Morality bends,” Hannibal finished softly, almost kindly, “and when it bends far enough, it ceases to be morality at all. Then it becomes… freedom. Most people are terrified of that. But you-” his eyes lingered, dark and intent, “-you are curious.”

Holly froze, caught between irritation at his presumption and the sting of recognition. Curious. It was true. She was fascinated. By the Ripper, by the abyss between principle and action, by the way people justified the unthinkable.

She cleared her throat, gathering her bag in brisk, practiced motions. “Class is over, Dr. Lecter. Thank you for attending.”

He inclined his head as though she had just conceded something important. “On the contrary, Professor Black. Thank you. You’ve given me much to reflect on.”

As he walked away, unhurried, composed, Holly realized the conversation had left her rattled, as though he’d taken something intangible with him. A mask she hadn’t realized she was wearing now felt thinner, easier to see through.

--

Evening had fallen by the time Will returned to Wolftrap, Virginia, a new dog trotting happily at his heels. Holly had just finished plating a simple, warm dinner – something warm, something homey.

“I found him on the road?” Will justified awkwardly, gesturing at the dog, who was already sniffing every corner of the porch. His smile was sheepish, apologetic.

“Of course,” Holly replied wryly, slipping out of her seat at the table. “He just leapt into your car all on his own, then?”

“There was… some bribery involved,” Will admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I’m pretty sure he has fleas, though. Bath time’s a little urgent.”

Holly huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “Dinner can wait. I’ll get the soap; you handle the bucket.”

His grin was small but genuine, warm in its fondness.

By the time the new dog – Winston, Will was calling him – was settled into a crate and introduced to the pack, the night had fully arrived. They carried their plates out to the porch, sitting side by side beneath the stars.

“How was the case? The man I saw earlier, was that Crawford?” Holly asked eventually, breaking the companionable silence.

“Yeah. We’re working the Elise Nichols case. She disappeared from her home. Then reappeared in her own bed after it had already been checked. Deer velvet in her wounds.” His brow furrowed, heavy with thought. “It felt… like an apology. For something. Something he didn’t feel the need to apologize for with the others.”

“So not an action or torture he felt bad about.” She hummed consideringly. “Something he couldn’t do, then? It’s not sexual, right?”

“No.” He answered with surprising fervor. Realizing his tone was off, he calmed down, trying again. “No. We don’t have any of the other bodies, but Elise Nichols was… innocent, untainted in his eyes. He thought of her like a child.”

“Could he be trying to build a family?”

Will considered that briefly before shaking his head. “No. These girls are just… stand-ins. Maybe it’s a compulsion? He can’t help hurting someone, so instead he hurts substitutes instead of the actual target.”

“That won’t last forever, if true.” Holly said, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“If it hasn’t happened already,” he replied. The strain on his face was hard to miss. Holly reached out, smoothing a hand over his brow, skin warm and slightly damp. Will leaned into the touch, relief pulling the edges of his face into something softer.

“You should rest, luv,” she murmured. “Don’t let Crawford burn you out.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

She pressed a brief kiss to his lips, smiling against him. “I’ve got a staff meeting in the morning, so I should head back. Lunch tomorrow?”

“If Crawford doesn’t hog me the whole time,” he groaned. A small huff of laughter escaped him. “But yeah… lunch tomorrow. Goodnight.”

--

Holly spent the day with a low, constant edge of worry, the kind that coiled in the pit of her stomach whenever Will was out of reach. By mid-morning, she broke and sent a text, just to check in. The reply came minutes later:

Crawford’s intense. This case… he’s really pressing.

Her shoulders loosened, only a little. Lunch together was off. She packed a meal anyway, scribbling on the note she tucked inside: For survival purposes only. Eat something. She bribed his secretary to make sure it got to him before Crawford monopolized him entirely.

Another buzz a half hour later:

Saw the lunch. Crawford practically drooled. You’re lethal, you know that?

The corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. A fleeting warmth threaded through her worry. She went back to her routine: lecturing, grading stacks of papers with one eye on the clock, smiling politely when students lingered after class. She made a point to avoid Nick in the hallway, gliding past him as though nothing lingered under the surface. Still, every few minutes her mind drifted back to Will, imagining him hunched over reports, dark eyes flicking across details no one else would see.

That evening, her phone lit again.

Heading to Minnesota. Shrike case. Can you watch the dogs?

Her breath caught. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to still the sudden flutter of anxiety. Traveling. Gone for days. She agreed at once, her fingers tapping back a quick confirmation before she could think too hard about it.

By the next night, Holly was at Will’s house. Alone. Beyond the protective hum of her wards, the walls felt thinner, the quiet of the house both unfamiliar and amplifying. Every creak, every groan of settling wood set her nerves alight. Old trauma was stubborn – she knew logically that no one knew she was here, that she was safe, but her body refused to believe it.

The dogs padded around her like a tide, noses nudging her knees, tails brushing against her legs. When she curled onto the couch, they pressed in close, their bodies warm and steady, the simple rhythm of their breathing pulling hers into sync. Slowly, the tightness in her chest began to ease.

Night still brought shadows, and sleep brought its usual jagged dreams. But this time the nightmares came quieter – fragments rather than full assaults. Half-formed images, fear without teeth. She woke often, but always with the weight of a dog draped across her feet or curled against her side.

It wasn’t safety, not really. Not the kind her wards gave her. But it was something stubborn and grounding: the reminder that she wasn’t entirely alone.

--

Panic clawed at Abigail’s chest as her father’s hands tightened around her throat. Every instinct screamed to fight, to run, to survive. Her vision blurred, edges darkening, but she remembered her defense lessons: the leverage, the angles, the way to turn fear into motion.

Her fingers found the pocketknife Holly had pressed into her hand weeks ago. One sharp breath, one last surge of strength – she twisted, drove the blade, slashed. Fire ripped through her throat as his grip wrenched tighter, but she kept moving, refusing to let stillness take her. Her father staggered back, blood slicking his neck – the first wound she’d ever managed to give him.

Every heartbeat thundered with a single resolve: He doesn’t get to define me. Not now. Not ever.

She slid down against the wall, chest heaving, watching her father flail and stumble. Then his body jerked once. Twice. Three times.

Oh. Someone was shooting him.

Her head turned sluggishly toward the noise. Two men had entered the room. One rushed forward, panic plain in his eyes, his hands moving with deliberate care. His face was unfamiliar, yet something about his gaze struck her as achingly known – gentle, protective, as though he’d carried her in his thoughts long before this moment.

His hands pressed against her throat – not to choke, but to stem the bleeding. The steadiness, the desperate tenderness, unraveled something inside her. Relief washed over her in a flood so sharp it almost hurt.

He’s trying to save me.

Her lips curved faintly, eyes fluttering shut as exhaustion stole her strength. Voices overlapped above her – urgent, frantic, soothing – but their words blurred. Then another set of hands took over: larger, firmer, unyielding. A final anchor.

Safe. For the first time in years, she felt safe. Saved.

--

The cool night air stung Holly’s cheeks as she shuffled the dogs back across the lawn, their tails wagging and paws scuffing the soft earth. Will’s property felt vast and quiet in the dark, the stars overhead indifferent witnesses to the life she had temporarily been tasked to guard.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, expecting a casual check-in. Will’s name flashed across the screen, and she answered, voice light.

“Holly–” His tone cut through the evening like a knife. She stiffened, heart already skipping.

“Will? What is it?”

He took a breath. “I found something in Abigail’s things. A college pamphlet… with your name and number on it. And it clicked. She’s the girl you’ve been helping.”

Holly froze, every instinct screaming. “What happened?”

“There was an… incident. She’s safe now, but she’s in a coma. They’re letting her heal. Physically, she’ll recover. Mentally… we’ll see.”

The word coma felt like a punch to her chest. Her stomach churned. She stumbled backward a step, hands clutching the leash tighter than necessary, nails biting into her palms.

The word coma hit like a punch. Holly stumbled backward, hands clutching leashes.

“She… she’s alive?” Holly’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Yes. She’s alive,” Will reassured, exhaustion in his voice.

Holly sank onto the porch steps, dogs circling her legs. The hollow ache of maternal instinct pressed against her chest. She had let this happen. This teen, who had looked to her for advice, for reassurance. She had been hurt and there was nothing Holly could do now.

Tears pricked, her breath hitching. “I… I should have done more.”

“You’ve done everything you could,” Will said gently. “She’s lucky to have you.”

But Holly couldn’t shake the devastation, the guilt twisting in her stomach. She sat there long after the call ended, hands buried in her lap, staring at the night sky. Alive, yes. But almost lost. And she would never forgive herself for the almost.

Holly pressed her palms to her eyes, the cold night air biting through her anxiety. Will’s voice, steady but tense, lingered in her ear, a tether in the chaos. Abigail’s alive, he reminded her, but the knowledge did little to still the storm in her chest. She exhaled slowly, letting the dogs nuzzle against her legs, grounding her in the moment. No one will ever hurt Abigail again, she vowed silently – not her father, not fate, and not the shadows that haunted them both. And she would make sure Will knew she meant it, even if he didn’t fully understand the depth of her resolve yet.

Chapter Text

The scent of garlic and andouille filled Will’s kitchen, rich and familiar, steam curling toward the ceiling in lazy ribbons. Holly leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up, watching Will fuss over the pot with the reverence of a priest before an altar.

“Is that… the fifth time you’ve tasted it?” she asked, voice dry.

“Sixth,” Will corrected, utterly without shame. “It’s gumbo. It’s supposed to evolve.”

She arched a brow. “You say that like you’re raising a child, not dinner.”

“I am,” he countered. “And you’re over there judging my parenting.”

Her laugh was soft, unguarded. “I’d call it observation, not judgment.”

He looked over his shoulder, eyes catching hers, that small, crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “Observation with commentary.”

Holly’s heart gave an inconvenient flutter. “Well, I’m a teacher. It’s in the job description.”

Will rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He moved beside her to chop scallions, brushing close enough that the warmth of his arm lingered against her hip. Holly reached past him to stir the pot, and his hand found her waist – steadying, guiding, staying a fraction too long.

“Don’t scrape the bottom,” he murmured, voice low, near her ear. “You’ll ruin the roux.”

“You’re very bossy for someone I’m feeding,” she said, pretending to frown, but her lips betrayed her.

He laughed quietly. “You’re in my kitchen. My rules.”

“Your rules are very territorial.”

“Gumbo’s serious business.”

She hummed, half amusement, half affection. “I’ll take your word for it, Louisiana.”

“Smart move, England.”

By the time they sat down to eat, the kitchen was a comfortable mess – bowls, spoons, and a line of dogs asleep at their feet, the air rich with spice and familiarity. Holly’s laughter came easier now; Will’s shoulders had loosened, his usual guardedness replaced by something warmer.

After dinner, the dogs piled around them on the couch, forming a barrier of warmth and fur. Holly graded a stack of essays with a red pen while Will flipped through case files. They worked in companionable silence, the kind that spoke of trust more than conversation.

It was Will who finally broke it. “Jack wants me back in the field.”

Holly looked up, brow knitting. “Already?”

“Apparently the Bureau’s short on well-trained consultants,” he said, tone halfway to a sigh. “Or maybe Jack just can’t stand being right without someone to confirm it.”

“Do you want to go back?”

Will hesitated, the pen in his hand stilled. “I don’t know. It feels like I have to.”

There was something in the way he said have to that made Holly’s chest tighten—an invisible obligation, a gravity she couldn’t name.

“But before I can,” he added, “I have to get cleared. Psych evaluation.”

Holly tilted her head. “That Alana Bloom you mentioned?”

He shook his head. “No. The guy who worked the Minnesota Shrike case with me. Hannibal Lecter.”

The name hit her like a cold current. She blinked once, twice, masking the unease that knotted in her stomach. “The psychiatrist?”

“That’s him,” Will confirmed. “Jack said he’s thorough.”

“Hmm,” she said, keeping her voice mild. “I’ve never met a psychiatrist who wasn’t.”

Will looked up, studying her expression. “You don’t like them?”

“Like is a strong word,” she said with a faint smile. “I just prefer people who leave my head alone. Most psychiatrists tend to make a home there without asking.”

Will’s mouth quirked in sympathy. “I’ll make sure to keep him out of yours, then.”

“See that you do.”

The tension in the room didn’t last. Will’s hand brushed hers as she set aside her papers, his thumb tracing the edge of her palm before his gaze lifted, uncertain but warm.

“Stay?” he asked, quiet enough it could’ve been mistaken for a breath.

Holly hesitated. She still dreamed of blood and whispers when she slept outside her wards. But Will’s house didn’t feel empty the way others did. It hummed softly with life – dogs shifting in their sleep, the slow rhythm of Will’s breathing, the scent of gumbo still clinging to the air.

“Yeah,” she said finally, voice softening. “I’ll stay.”

The rest of the night was gentle, slow, and safe. The sort of intimacy that lived in touch rather than words. The house was quiet, save for the rustle of sheets and the steady rise and fall of shared breath.

--

By mid-morning, campus life had folded neatly around Holly again – students rushing between classes, sunlight filtering through the maples outside her window, the familiar murmur of conversation that filled the halls of Behavioral Sciences.

She’d almost convinced herself that the tension from last night was just nerves. That it didn’t mean anything.

Almost.

“Professor Black?”

Holly glanced up to find Gabrael lingering in her doorway, notebook tucked under one arm, expression carefully measured. The girl always carried herself like she was walking into an oral defense.

“Come in,” Holly said, setting her tea aside. “How’s the thesis proposal coming?”

Gabrael sat, flipping open her notes. “I’ve been refining the question about narrative perception in crime scene reconstruction. I wanted your thoughts on whether the Ripper’s case studies could function as a central comparative model, or if that’s… too sensationalist.”

“Depends on your angle,” Holly said, leaning back in her chair. “If your focus is on the perception of violence rather than the acts themselves, it could work. You’d just need to treat the case as a cultural narrative, not as spectacle.”

Gabrael smiled faintly. “That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say.”

Holly arched a brow. “Flattery gets you partial credit, Miss Kasim.”

The student grinned, gathering her notes. “Thank you, professor.”

When Gabrael left, Holly’s phone buzzed against her desk.

Will: Cleared by Lecter. Back in the field.

Holly’s pulse quickened, her hand hovering over the screen. Cleared by Lecter.
She should’ve been relieved – she wanted to be. But the thought of him evaluating Will made her uneasy, like a wrong note humming beneath a familiar tune. Hannibal Lecter had that kind of gravity – subtle, pervasive, impossible to ignore once you’d noticed it.

Still, she typed back:
Holly: Good. Just… take care of yourself, yeah?

She didn’t expect a reply, and didn’t get one.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings and office hours. Holly graded essays while half-listening to students recount midterm woes, her thoughts never quite settling. When the final hour of daylight dipped into gold, she was ready to go home – only to find Nick leaning against her office door.

He was smiling in that way that made her teeth clench.

“Holly,” he greeted, tone a practiced blend of charm and unintentional condescension. “You’ve been hard to pin down lately.”

“Busy week.” She stepped around him, but he moved just enough to block her path.

“The Board was very impressed with your work with Ellen Komeda. They’d like you at another function. Black-tie. Gala at the Jefferson in two nights.”

“I see.” Her tone could’ve frozen water. “I assume this isn’t a request.”

His smile widened. “Oh, I think you’ll manage. You seem to have a knack for impressing our more… refined benefactors.”

“I’ll consider it,” she said, already moving past him. “That’s the most enthusiasm you’ll get tonight.”

“Don’t be late,” he called after her.

By the time she reached her apartment, her patience had worn thin. She poured herself a generous glass of firewhiskey, the familiar burn grounding her, the soft hum of her wards a comfort.

The floo flared green.

“Daphne,” Holly greeted, sinking into her armchair. “You’ve caught me in a rare moment of peace.”

“Then I’ll ruin it,” Daphne replied dryly. Her hair was pinned up haphazardly, smudges of soot on her cheek. “We’ve flushed out a few of the rats. But four of our suspects weren’t among them – Creevey, Smith, Rosier, Nott Jr. Either they’re very clever or very lucky.”

“Or they’ve got allies,” Holly murmured.

“Possibly. Hard to prove.” Daphne’s expression softened. “Jordan’s been having far too much fun tearing apart the ones we did catch. He’s asking for an interview. Said, and I quote, ‘I’d love to get Potter’s take on all the Ministry takedowns.’”

Holly snorted softly. “I bet he would.”

“Should I tell him you’ll think about it?”

Holly swirled her drink, watching the amber light catch the glass. “Yes. Thinking sounds safe.”

Daphne smiled faintly, though worry lingered behind it. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Holly lied easily. “Just tired.”

They said their goodnights, and the fire dimmed back to orange.

Holly sat for a long while in the quiet, the wards humming softly around her, her mind turning in slow, wary circles. Something was shifting – not just in her old world, but in this one too. And for all her wards and careful boundaries, she could feel the edges of her peace thinning.

--

The late morning sun was soft over Quantico, warm enough to make the brick buildings shimmer faintly in the distance. Holly sat cross-legged on the grass of the academy’s quad, unpacking a neat spread of food containers from her bag. The smell of roasted chicken and saffron rice drifted on the breeze, drawing a curious nose from one of the passing K-9 units.

Will arrived a few minutes later, his sleeves rolled up, looking both exhausted and alive in that way only fieldwork ever seemed to make him.

“You’re spoiling me,” he said, setting his files aside and sitting down beside her.

“Considering what you eat when left to your own devices, I’m performing a public service,” Holly replied, handing him a fork.

He smirked, a quiet spark of amusement lighting his eyes. “You make it sound like I’m incapable of boiling water.”

“Will, I’ve seen your attempts at tea.”

“Point taken.”

They ate together in easy silence for a while – the kind that had become increasingly familiar as of late, that of two people who didn’t need to fill every gap with words. Around them, trainees passed in pairs, the murmur of lectures drifting faintly from the nearby buildings.

It still surprised Holly sometimes – this domestic simplicity they found in the cracks between everything else. It was grounding in a way her wards couldn’t be.

“So,” Will said eventually, nudging her ankle with his knee, “how’s your star pupil doing? Gabriel?”

“Gabrael,” she corrected with a small smile. “Still brilliant, still overambitious. She’s rewriting her thesis again – this time she wants to examine how Enlightenment ideas about morality shaped modern criminal rehabilitation.”

Will’s brow rose. “Light reading, then.”

“For her? Practically a beach novel.”

Will chuckled softly, and for a moment the sound felt like sunlight.

Then a shadow fell across them.

“Hey, Graham,” said a voice, bright and cutting. “Jack wants you on a case. Elk Neck State Forest.”

They both looked up to find an Asian woman in a leather jacket standing a few feet away, dark hair pulled back, sunglasses perched on her head. “Already?”

“Yeah,” the woman said, hands on her hips. “Looks like some kids found a body, and he said it’s weird enough for your particular brand of insight.”

Will sighed, setting down his fork. “Of course he does.”

He turned to Holly, eyes softening. “Sorry. I thought we’d at least make it through lunch.”

“You’re excused,” Holly said lightly, though her hand lingered when he leaned close to kiss her goodbye – casual, familiar, a gesture that would’ve once felt impossible.

The woman’s eyebrow flew up.

As he joined the woman walking across the quad back toward the offices, Holly could hear the woman ribbing him a bit. “Damn, didn’t know you had a hot girlfriend, Graham. How’d you score her?”

“I have no idea,” Will responded fondly. Holly couldn’t help her responding grin at his retreating back.

Despite that, however unease settled quietly in her chest. Something about the case, about Jack’s timing, about the way fate kept circling her life lately.

She packed up their remaining lunch and left the quad, nodding politely to a few of Will’s coworkers as she crossed the lawn. The warmth of the afternoon lingered, but something in the air prickled – an awareness she’d learned not to ignore.

By the time she reached the parking lot, she saw her: a woman striding toward her with purpose. Red hair like a warning flare, checkered coat too bright for daylight, eyes sharp and assessing.

“Dr. Holly Black?” the woman called out, her voice slicing clean through the background chatter.

Holly stopped, cautious but composed. “May I help you?”

“Freddie Lounds. TattleCrime.” She said it like it meant something, as if the name itself should open doors. “I wanted to ask about the case you’re consulting on. The one at the Bureau.”

“I’m not consulting on any active cases,” Holly said smoothly, already turning her body away – measured disinterest, a shield she’d perfected long ago.

Freddie smiled wider, too pleased with herself. “Oh, come on, Dr. Black. Or should I say… Dr. Potter?”

Holly froze mid-step – not outwardly, not enough for anyone but a predator like Freddie – like Skeeter - to catch it. Her eyes flicked to the reporter’s, cool, unreadable.

Freddie’s grin sharpened. “Thought you’d buried that little name change better? But it’s funny what pops up when you dig deep enough. Makes me wonder what else you’ve tried to hide. Maybe a sealed record? Maybe a reason the Bureau keeps you around, hm?”

“You’ve wasted your time, Miss Lounds.” Holly’s voice didn’t rise, didn’t break – calm, quiet, lethal. “And if you print anything that even smells of libel, you will be dealing with my solicitor, not me.”

Freddie’s pen stilled just long enough for her to weigh whether that was a bluff. She decided it wasn’t, but her pride wouldn’t let her back down. “You sound like someone with a lot to lose. Maybe it’s your boyfriend you’re worried about?”

Holly’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You sound like someone who doesn’t know when to stop talking.”

Freddie huffed, scribbling something anyway, the motion more for show than record. Holly turned from her, deliberate, steady.

She could feel the woman’s gaze burning into her back as she crossed to her motorcycle – could feel the weight of attention, of exposure. That was what unsettled her most. Not Freddie herself, but what she represented: the invasive curiosity of those who dug without care for what they unearthed.

Luna had been the only journalist she’d ever respected – because Luna knew that truth didn’t have to be cruel to be real.

Helmet in place, Holly kicked the stand, the motorcycle’s engine roaring to life. As she pulled away, the reflection in her side mirror caught Freddie’s silhouette watching her leave, notebook in hand, eyes hungry.

For the first time in weeks, Holly felt the faint stir of old paranoia – that the careful distance she’d built between her worlds was beginning to erode.

--

Evening had settled quietly over Wolf Trap when Holly’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the clock – nearly six.

“Hey.” Will said quietly.

She answered immediately. “Hey, you sound tired.”

“I am,” he admitted. “Just left the scene. I’m heading over to Dr. Lecter’s office.”

Holly frowned. “Everything all right?”

He hesitated, and that silence said enough. “I… saw Hobbs. Not really. I hallucinated him – one of the victims, buried in that field, I thought it was him. I know it wasn’t, but…”

Her heart clenched. “Will, that’s not strange. You shot a man. You’ve got the kind of empathy that bruises.”

“Maybe,” he said softly. “I’ll see what Lecter says.”

“Be careful,” she murmured. “With both Crawford and Lecter. They’ll burn you out if you let them.”

He hummed, tired but grateful. “I’ll call you after.”

--

Later, Holly sat on Will’s couch, a drowsy Buster curled in her lap and her laptop open beside an untouched cup of tea. She was checking faculty emails when a new one appeared from an unfamiliar address.

The subject line read: “This your boyfriend?”

Her stomach dropped.

Against her better judgment, she clicked.

The link opened to TattleCrime.

The headline read: “It Takes One to Know One.”

Beneath it – a photo of Will, captured mid-investigation, eyes hollow, coat catching the wind.

The article was a vicious dissection. Freddie Lounds’ prose was venomous: an unstable profiler whose mind mirrors the monsters he hunts… a man as dangerous as the killers he studies.

Holly’s breath went sharp. Fury followed – hot, instinctive, protective. She grabbed her phone, dialing her solicitor.

“Defamation,” she hissed before he could greet her. “A publication called TattleCrime. Find everything you can on a Freddie Lounds. I want her buried.”

Her solicitor, calm and British as ever, reminded her that defamation suits in America were expensive, difficult, and almost impossible to win against a reporter.

Holly hung up only slightly less furious than before. She looked at the article again — then slammed the laptop shut.

 --

Will came home just as she was pouring herself a drink. He looked exhausted – eyes shadowed, shoulders tight.

“Rough day?” she asked softly.

“Could say that.” His lips quirked faintly. “And I see you’ve read the news.”

“News?” she scoffed. “That was a character assassination. My solicitor says defamation’s hard to prove. I just think American law’s allergic to accountability.”

Will chuckled, weary but amused. “Welcome to America.”

She sat beside him on the couch, the dogs curling close. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

He shrugged, leaning his head back. “Comes with the job.”

For a few long minutes, they just sat – quiet, steady, a fragile kind of peace.

Then Will spoke again, voice low. “Lecter said something that stuck with me.” He hesitated, choosing the words carefully. “He said it’s not Hobbs’ ghost that’s haunting me. It’s the inevitability of there being a man so bad that killing him felt good.”

Holly tilted her head. “And did it?”

He nodded once, almost imperceptibly. “Killing Hobbs felt just.”

She frowned but didn’t judge. “You saved a girl’s life, Will. Sometimes the world doesn’t give you a clean way to do that.”

“I told him it was harder now to imagine myself as the killer.”

“Then he’s helping,” Holly said quietly, though uncertainty tinged her tone. “Even if I don’t trust him, that sounds like progress.”

He glanced at her, curious.

“I’ve met him,” she said, almost absently. “A few times. Dinner parties. Networking. He’s… polite. Charming, even. Too much so.”

Will smirked faintly. “That sounds about right.”

“Speaking of charming people,” she said, changing tone, “I’ve been roped into another gala. I was wondering if you’d come. For moral support – and to keep me from throttling any politicians.”

He laughed. “You really hate them that much?”

“Politicians, psychiatrists, and reporters,” she listed, counting on her fingers. “In that order.”

Will’s laughter deepened, warm and genuine. “Then I guess I’ll be your buffer.”

“Good,” she said, smiling into her glass. “Because otherwise, I might actually commit homicide.”

They settled back into the couch, the dogs heavy and warm at their feet.

--

The next day dawned bright and deceptively calm – the kind of clear winter morning that looked harmless until it wasn’t.

Holly was halfway across the faculty parking lot, juggling her keys and a folder of reports, when the world shifted. The sound hit first – a scuff of gravel, too close, too fast. Then a shadow broke from between two cars.

She turned just in time to see the man’s arm flash forward.

A sting bloomed at her neck.

Cold. Sharp.

A syringe.

Training kicked in before thought could. She twisted hard, wrenching away, fingers clawing at the man’s wrist until the syringe snapped free. Pain flared, but adrenaline burned hotter.

He was big – tall, broad-shouldered – but sloppy. Overconfident. She pivoted on instinct, driving her elbow into his ribs with a crack that sent him staggering. He swung wildly; she ducked low, caught his knee, and sent him reeling backward against a car.

Students nearby screamed. A backpack hit the asphalt and skidded under a sedan.

Her pulse thundered. The air felt thick. Already, the edges of her vision pulsed dark. The drug. Too fast.

She went for her taser, but he lunged again, a growl tearing from his throat. His hand caught her shoulder, shoved. She slammed into the hood of a car, pain lancing through her arm. She turned, drove her knee up into his groin, and felt him fold.

She heard the horrified gasp of someone nearby.

“Call 911!” she barked, her voice raw but steady.

He was wheezing now, eyes wild. He still had the syringe in one hand – the plunger half-depressed, leaking whatever was left. She didn’t hesitate. The taser clicked, the prongs buried deep in his jacket. Electricity arced. His scream was short, ugly, final.

She stumbled back, chest heaving. Her legs felt wrong – heavy, syrup-thick. The world tilted again, colors too bright, sounds too sharp.

Footsteps. Running.

“Will?” she managed.

He appeared between the rows of cars, gun drawn, moving fast.

“Holly!”

Her knees wobbled. He caught her before she hit the ground, one arm steadying her, the other keeping the gun trained on the twitching man.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” His voice was firm, cutting through the static roaring in her ears. “You with me?”

She blinked, fighting to focus. His face swam in and out of view – pale, tight with controlled panic.

“Yeah…” Her words slurred. “I got him… didn’t I?”

Will’s eyes flicked to the man – unconscious, twitching faintly as the taser’s effect wore off. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You got him.”

She tried to nod, but her head lolled instead. The ground pitched under her, sky blurring to white. She could taste metal.

“Stay with me, Holly. You’re okay. You’re okay.” Will’s voice had gone hoarse, softer now, almost pleading.

Sirens broke through the noise – sharp, rising, closing in. Blue and red lights danced off the cars. Somewhere behind them, Jack Crawford’s voice thundered across the lot.

“Graham! Where are you?!”

But Holly was already fading. The world thinned to a single sound – Will’s voice, low and steady beside her ear.

Then everything went dark.

--

When Holly woke, the first thing she noticed was the antiseptic tang of the air – sharp, sterile, invasive. The second was the rhythmic beeping beside her head.

Will sat slumped in a chair at her bedside, jacket rumpled, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. A Styrofoam cup of cold coffee sat untouched by his knee.

When she shifted, his head snapped up. Relief broke over his face like a wave. “You’re awake.”

“Feels like I drank a liquor store,” she rasped. Her throat ached.

“They said it was some kind of benzo mix – fast-acting, high dose. He said he wanted to help you ‘connect’ to me, the way mushrooms do.”

Holly blinked, mind catching up through the fog. “That’s… deeply unsettling,” she managed. “And a hell of a line for his manifesto.”

“Yeah,” Will muttered. His voice was flat, but the muscle in his jaw worked. “They’re booking him now.”

Something in his tone made her look at him more closely. His hands were clasped too tightly, the knuckles pale. Beneath the exhaustion sat something darker, heavier – the quiet, vibrating rage of a man imagining the ‘what if.’

The door opened with a soft hiss of hinges. “It is, indeed, unsettling,” came a smooth, familiar voice.

Hannibal Lecter stepped in, composed as ever. His suit was immaculate, his expression almost warm. “But then, empathy often invites dangerous intimacy.”

Holly’s pulse ticked faster. “Dr. Lecter,” she greeted, cautious. “I was just thinking how quiet it was in here.”

He smiled faintly. “I find quiet is when we most hear ourselves.” His gaze flicked to Will. “And what have you been hearing, Will?”

Will’s shoulders stiffened. “You think this is about me?”

“It’s always about you,” Hannibal said gently. “You haven’t been sleeping. You’re irritable. And you’re angry – not at Stammets, but at what he made you feel.”

Will’s voice was low. “He hurt her. That’s enough.”

“Is it?” Hannibal tilted his head. “Or are you angry because, for a moment, you wanted to kill him?”

Holly frowned, glancing between them. “You’re making it sound like wanting to stop someone who’s trying to kill me is… pathology.”

“Not at all,” Hannibal said smoothly. “Wanting to kill is human. Enjoying it-” He paused, his eyes flicking back to Will. “That’s the line you keep testing.”

Will’s throat worked. “Killing Hobbs felt just,” he said.

“Ah,” Hannibal murmured. “And that’s why you’re here – to prove the spark you felt was justice, not pleasure.”

Holly’s voice cut in, steady. “Justice and pleasure aren’t the same thing.”

“No,” Hannibal agreed softly. “But they often rhyme.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to press against the walls.

Will looked away first, jaw tight. “I should’ve stuck to fixing boat motors in Louisiana.”

“A boat engine is predictable,” Hannibal said. “A simple problem with a simple solution. When you fail, there’s always a paddle.” He leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Where was your paddle with Hobbs?”

Will met his gaze, weary but defiant. “You’re supposed to be my paddle.”

“I am,” Hannibal murmured. “But paddles only help if you’re still trying to row.”

Will’s next words came out like a confession. “I liked killing him.”

“Of course you did,” Hannibal said softly, like a priest granting absolution. “Killing must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time. And are we not made in His image?”

“That depends who you ask,” Will said, voice gone brittle.

“God’s terrific,” Hannibal went on, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. “He dropped a church roof on thirty-four worshippers in Texas last week. Do you think He felt remorse? No. He felt powerful.”

The silence that followed was taut as wire.

Holly lay back against the pillow, pulse steady but mind racing. She watched Hannibal’s calm mask, Will’s fraying edges – and wondered, uneasily, which of them was more dangerous in that moment.

--

Later, when Will had drifted into a shallow sleep in the chair beside her bed, Holly stared at the ceiling, the rhythmic beeping of the monitor filling the room. The sedative still fogged her thoughts, but Hannibal’s words lingered, echoing faintly in her skull like a melody she couldn’t shake. “Killing must feel good to God too…”

She turned her head toward Will, studying the faint tension in his face even as he slept. He looked fragile in the hospital light – too human for what the world kept demanding of him. She’d seen that same flicker in herself once, the brief, traitorous spark of understanding in the aftermath of violence.

Maybe it wasn’t satisfaction – just… clarity. The moment where the chaos finally made sense, however fleeting.

Her fingers brushed absently over the bandage on her neck. The wound throbbed in time with her pulse, a quiet reminder of how easily control could be taken – or reclaimed. She drew in a slow breath and closed her eyes.

For a moment, she thought she could almost hear Hannibal’s voice again, low and musing. “Wanting to kill is human.”

And that was the problem.

Chapter Text

The bruise had gone from purple to yellow by the time Holly returned to campus, the last mark of her encounter with Stammet’s fading from her cheek. Students greeted her with wide eyes and cautious relief, the news of the attack having already passed through every corridor and group chat. Faculty members hovered just as much, offering concerned smiles and too many questions.

Nick was waiting outside her office when she arrived. His expression was tight, a strange blend of indignation and performative sympathy.
“Can you believe this happened here?” he demanded before she’d even set her bag down. “The board’s horrified, of course. They said you’re excused from that gala event, given what you’ve been through. But—”
“But,” Holly interrupted, removing her coat with deliberate calm, “you think I should still go.”
He blinked, momentarily thrown, then smiled thinly. “Networking, Holly. Visibility. It’d be good for you.”
“Of course,” she said, voice dry as old parchment. “I’ll think about it.”

He took that as agreement and finally left her in peace. The rest of the morning passed in a flurry of half-finished emails and student visits, her phone buzzing intermittently with messages from Will—short, careful check-ins that she both adored and found faintly exasperating. He’d offered to pick her up for lunch, which she’d accepted mostly to keep him from worrying himself into a spiral.

When he arrived, she spotted him from her office window, his familiar blue jacket and that uncertain, thoughtful way he scanned the crowd before spotting her. The worry in his expression eased the moment she smiled.
“Still breathing,” she told him as they reached his car. “And not concussed, before you ask.”
He gave her a look that was half affection, half reproach. “You were attacked on campus, Holly.”
“Yes. I was also trained not to die easily,” she replied, the corner of her mouth quirking up. “You should know that by now.”
He sighed, but his hand found hers as they walked into the small café down the street.

Lunch passed easily, the rhythm between them soft and domestic—an unspoken reassurance that they were both, somehow, still intact. When Will kissed her goodbye outside her building, Holly lingered just a second longer than usual, drawing strength from his warmth before returning to her work.

By midafternoon, she was halfway through sorting her inbox—most of it students wanting details about her “near-death experience”—when her phone buzzed with an unknown number. Instinct made her wary. Reporters had been relentless since the Stammet’s case, Freddie Lounds leading the charge. Still, she answered.
“Dr. Holly Black?” The voice on the other end was female, calm, professional. “This is Nurse Wilson, from St. Paul Regional Hospital. Abigail Hobbs listed you as an approved contact. She’s awake and asking to speak with you.”

Holly straightened in her chair, breath catching. “She’s awake?” Relief hit her like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. “Can I—can I talk to her?”
There was a rustle, the faint hum of machines, and then—
“Holly?” The voice was soft, hoarse, but unmistakable.
Holly closed her eyes. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m so glad you’re all right.”

Abigail managed a shaky laugh. “I did it. I stood up to him. Like you said.”
Holly’s throat tightened. “I’m proud of you, love. You’re safe now. That’s what matters.”
They spoke until the nurse gently intervened, reminding them of time limits. Holly promised she’d be there the next morning, even as her heart raced at the thought of flying so far so soon after the attack.

That night, she could barely sit still. She booked her flight before heading to Will’s, pulse humming with purpose.

He met her at the door, relief blooming into a smile when he saw her. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I am,” she said, brushing past him into the kitchen. “In Minnesota.”

--

Will poured coffee while Holly packed her overnight bag, the sound of her moving through his kitchen familiar enough to be comforting. The dogs lay in their usual sprawl by the door, tracking her every step with lazy eyes.

“She’s awake,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Holly looked up from zipping her bag. “I know. The nurse called me.”

“I’m glad,” he went on. “Jack’s sending Alana to the hospital in the next day or two. He wants her to talk to Abigail.”

Holly frowned. “Talk to her about what?”

Will hesitated, his jaw tightening. “He thinks she might’ve helped her father. Or at least… that she knew what he was doing.” His voice carried a note of disbelief, sharp and weary. “Jack thinks she was an accomplice.”

For a moment, the air between them stilled. Holly set her bag down and leaned against the counter, studying him carefully. “You don’t believe that.”

“No,” he admitted. “But Jack does. And if Alana starts asking the wrong questions, Abigail might think she’s being cornered. She’s been through enough.”

Holly’s gaze softened. She hesitated, then said, “If I tell you something, you have to promise it stays between us. Not with Jack, not with anyone. Especially not with Jack.”

Will looked up sharply. “You have my word.”

She drew in a slow breath, choosing her words with care. “That’s how Abigail and I met. She reached out to me last year. She’d read about my case. She said she felt like she understood what I went through. Like she was living in the same kind of trap.”

Will’s expression shifted, the lines around his mouth tightening with realization. “She knew.”

“She suspected,” Holly corrected gently. “She didn’t know how to stop it. How do you turn in your own father, Will? How do you live with that?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand flexed around his coffee mug, knuckles white. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. “Jack won’t understand that.”

“No,” she said softly. “He won’t.”

They stood there for a moment, the silence between them heavy but not uncomfortable. Will looked at her the way he sometimes looked at his crime scenes—not as something to solve, but something to understand.

Finally, he nodded. “I won’t tell him.”

A faint smile curved her lips, gratitude and exhaustion mingling there. “Thank you.”

Will glanced away, but his voice was steady when he spoke again. “I trust your read on her more than anyone else’s.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it, but she felt the weight of it all the same. Trust, fragile and quiet, taking root between them.

--

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and lilies, both equally offensive to Holly. One tried to mask sickness, the other pretended to sanctify it.

Abigail looked smaller than she remembered—pale, thin, and swallowed by too much white. When she spotted Holly in the doorway, her face lit up despite the bandages at her throat.

“You were hurt,” she whispered, eyes flicking to the fading bruise on Holly’s cheek.

“Nothing that won’t heal,” Holly said lightly, setting her bag down. She reached forward, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Abigail’s ear. “You, on the other hand, look like you’re terrorizing the nurses with how fast you’re recovering.”

A faint smile. “They said Dr. Bloom’s coming. FBI stuff.”

Holly’s hand stilled. “Jack Crawford’s behind that,” she said, tone even but edged. “He thinks you might have helped your father. Don’t panic. Keep your answers simple, and don’t let them twist your words. You’ve survived worse.”

Abigail’s fingers clenched around hers. “You really think they’ll believe that?”

“I think people like Jack always need someone to blame,” Holly said softly. “Just make sure it isn’t you.”

That silenced her. For a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor, steady and fragile as breath. Then Holly shifted, her tone warming. “Tell me something normal. Anything.”

They talked about safer things after that—about the university, about the café that always burned its scones, about a new lemon bread recipe Holly swore she’d perfect before term’s end. Abigail smiled through most of it, and Holly pretended not to notice when her eyes went glassy with exhaustion.

Before she left, Abigail hesitated. “Do you know what happens to… all of it? My dad’s stuff? The house?”

Holly shook her head. “It might all be seized as evidence for now. You’ll need a lawyer to sort through it once the FBI clears the scene.”

Abigail nodded slowly. “I just… I don’t want them taking everything.”

“Be careful saying that to Dr. Bloom,” Holly warned gently. “They’ll take concern for calculation. The wrong tone, the wrong phrasing—it can make you sound unfeeling. Don’t give them that.”

The nurse came to remind them of visiting hours, and Holly brushed Abigail’s hair back once more before standing. “I’ll be here in the morning. Get some sleep.”

Back in her hotel room, the weight of the day pressed down all at once. She kicked off her shoes, sank onto the bed, and only just managed to answer her phone when Will’s name flashed across the screen.

“You sound exhausted,” he said, voice low and warm.

“I’m in Minnesota,” she murmured, smiling faintly. “Exhausted is the baseline.”

He chuckled, that soft breathy sound that always reached her chest first. They talked about ordinary things—the dogs, his lecture on Hobbs, her exam grading. Ordinary had become their refuge, a fragile sort of peace neither of them knew how to name.

When they hung up, Holly stared at the ceiling for a long time before sleep claimed her.

--

The next day, Freddie Lounds was coming out of Abigail’s hospital room when Holly turned the corner. The reporter’s expression was pinched—displeased, calculating—but it smoothed instantly into a bright, false smile when she saw her next target.

“Dr. Black,” Freddie sang, recorder already in hand. “Care to comment on your role in the Hobbs case? Or perhaps your… connection to Will Graham?”

Holly didn’t even slow her stride. “No comment.”

Freddie shifted smoothly to block her path, perfume sharp as acetone. “That’s not what your record says, is it, Dr. Potter?” Her grin sharpened. “I wonder what it is you’re hiding so desperately.”

That made Holly pause. Just for a second. She turned her head, meeting Freddie’s gaze with perfect composure.

“You should wonder quietly,” she said at last—soft, precise, and cold enough to frost glass.

Then she stepped neatly around the reporter and kept walking. Behind her, Freddie sputtered something about freedom of the press. The nurses at the desk stifled their laughter.

--

Holly peeked her head into the room and finds Hannibal and Will already there, speaking with Abigail. Abigail perks up when she sees Holly, as does Will (a bit like a puppy in eagerness). Holly tells her that she’ll be by later once their done, Abigail agrees but is a bit disappointed.

The cafeteria was almost empty by the time she sat down, nursing a bitter coffee that had long since gone lukewarm. The quiet hum of the hospital—ventilation, footsteps, muffled conversation—had begun to sound almost peaceful when a shadow stretched across her table.

“Lady Black.”

Hannibal Lecter’s voice was smooth as wine, his smile cultured, unreadable. He carried a tray with nothing but tea and an apple.

“I hope your recovery has been kind,” he said as he took the seat opposite her.

“It’s been busy,” Holly replied, schooling her tone to something polite, neutral. “Hospitals have a way of keeping people occupied.”

He inclined his head, regarding her as though she were a particularly interesting painting. “Yes. Though I imagine your thoughts are occupied elsewhere.”

She blinked. “Elsewhere?”

“With Mr. Graham, perhaps.” His smile deepened, subtle, elegant. “The two of you seem… indispensable to one another.”

The phrasing was casual, but the implication slid like a scalpel under skin. Holly’s pulse jumped before she could help it. She wasn’t sure if it was irritation or recognition that set it off.

“He’s my partner,” she said carefully. “Concern tends to come with that territory.”

“Concern,” Hannibal echoed, savoring the word. “It’s such a delicate balance, isn’t it? How much of our compassion is born from genuine care, and how much from the fear of losing control?”

“I’m not in control of Will,” Holly said evenly.

“Of course not.” He smiled faintly, eyes warm but unreadable. “Yet it’s difficult, isn’t it? To see the ones we care for pulled toward darkness. We tell ourselves we only want to help them find their way back—but perhaps some part of us simply wants to follow.”

Something in his voice made her throat tighten, though she couldn’t have said why. It was too measured, too intimate to sound like simple curiosity. Holly felt a small, unnamable shift in her chest at his words, but she brushed it aside.

“I’m not following anyone into darkness, Dr. Lecter.”

He inclined his head slightly. “Then you are a stronger woman than most.”

Before she could respond, Will appeared at her shoulder, the tension in his body dissipating the moment he saw her. He bent to kiss her temple, greeting Hannibal with a nod.

“Abigail’s holding up,” he said, settling into the chair beside Holly. “There are still people who think she was part of what her father did, but most don’t. Stabbing him seems to have… helped her case.”

“Good,” Holly murmured.

“Freddie Lounds won’t get far with anything slanderous,” Will added, his tone almost grimly satisfied. “Not this time.”

“Let her try,” Holly said softly, glancing toward the window. “I’ve had worse things than a headline bite at me.”

Hannibal watched her, thoughtful. “Resilience is admirable,” he said, almost idly. “But one must take care not to confuse it with suppression. Sometimes the strength we pride ourselves on is only the armor that keeps us from feeling too much.”

Holly met his gaze. “Or from people trying to dissect us.”

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then Hannibal smiled again—slight, approving. “Touché.”

Will glanced between them, brow furrowed in mild confusion, but Holly simply reached for his hand beneath the table.

Her skin was cold.

--

Holly didn’t see most of what happened that night. She wasn’t part of the grim reenactment at Abigail’s house, nor did she witness the chaos that followed. She would never know the way Marissa laughed too loudly one moment and was gone the next, or how Nicholas Boyle’s shadow slipped across the scene with intent. She did not see Alana knocked out cold in a hallway by her fellow psychologist, nor Abigail grappling with Nicholas in the living room with a knife.

She only saw the aftermath, when Hannibal arrived at her hotel, guiding a trembling, pale , bloody Abigail through the door. Holly dropped everything, worry blooming instantly.

“You can stay,” Holly said firmly, ushering the younger girl to the bed. She pulled the blankets over Abigail, tugging her own jacket tighter around her shoulders. “You’re safe here. No one can touch you here tonight.”

Abigail curled into the blankets like they were armor. Holly watched her, every small rise and fall of her chest a relief and a reminder of how fragile this newfound safety was.

Morning came with pale light slanting across the hotel room. Holly brewed coffee quietly, careful not to wake Abigail, but the younger girl stirred and sat up, hair tangled, eyes still wary.

“He came at me,” Abigail said softly. “Nicholas Boyle. I – I fought him off. He ran into the woods.”

Holly’s eyes narrowed slightly at the news, tension coiling in her shoulders. “You did exactly what you needed to. Good reflexes,” she said, her voice steady, praising. She had no reason to think Abigail would lie to her now, after everything she’d already told her.

Abigail’s lips pressed into a thin line. She knew the truth, and the weight of it pressed heavily against her chest. She avoided Holly’s gaze, but the tremor in her hands betrayed the guilt she hadn’t admitted, that only her and Dr. Lecter knew.

Days later, Abigail found herself slipping out of Dr. Lecter’s office quietly, drawn to it earlier by a mix of curiosity and dread. She remembered his voice from their earlier conversation, soft and measured, and the way he had framed the terrible day her father snapped—how he claimed to be the one who had called, the one who had somehow set everything in motion.

Hannibal had been careful, almost gentle in the way he suggested responsibility, culpability, and understanding might intertwine. Abigail could feel the threads tugging at her beliefs, reshaping her perception of what she had trusted before – including her trust in Holly.

She didn’t tell Holly about Hannibal’s phone call. She didn’t know if Holly could understand, or whether she’d condemn the revelation. The words lingered in Abigail’s mind, seeding doubts and questions she hadn’t had before, twisting the clarity of her loyalty to Holly into something more complicated, more fraught.

As she walked back to her hospital room that evening, the dim light catching her pale face in the passing car windows, Abigail thought about Holly – the one person she could trust, the one person who had saved her before anyone else. And she thought about Hannibal, whose voice could turn certainty into doubt with a single phrase.

The tension between them – the need to be saved, the pull toward the dangerous, the conflicting loyalties– settled in Abigail’s chest. She hugged herself, wondering how much of what she felt was protection, and how much was something darker, something she wasn’t ready to name.

Holly, having had to return to her apartment the day previous, was grading papers, unaware of the storm brewing quietly in Abigail’s mind, or of the small lies that had begun to creep between them, unspoken and yet heavy.

It was a fragile balance, and for now, it held—but already, threads were loosening, unseen yet insistent.

Chapter Text

Snow had begun to fall over the house before sunrise, soft enough to muffle the sound of the generators and the rustle of evidence suits. The crime scene lights made the frost glitter like broken glass. Inside, the air was too still. Too arranged.

Will stood at the threshold of the dining room, gloved hands half-raised, the familiar tension beginning at the base of his skull. The family of four sat at the table as if in quiet prayer – the mother, father, two children – their heads bowed, the table set for a holiday meal that would never be eaten.

Only one chair remained empty. It was at the head of the table, polished, waiting.

Jack’s voice was a blunt intrusion from behind. “You’re on with Dr. Black. She’s got the photos.”

Will barely nodded. “Holly,” he murmured.

“Morning, Will.” Her voice carried through the line, soft static beneath her words. In her office, she was probably surrounded by the detritus of academia – paper towers, cooling coffee, the faint hum of a heater that never quite worked. She always sounded like she was holding back the world to make room for him.

“I’ve got the layout,” she continued. “Dining room, family posed. The table’s too perfect. Even the cutlery’s mirrored.”

Will walked closer. His breath fogged the edge of his face shield. “Someone wanted a ceremony.”

“Someone wanted a replacement,” Holly said quietly. “They weren’t just killed, Will. They were erased and replaced.”

The words sank into him like hooks. Will’s gaze drifted to the youngest boy, the angle of his chin, the hands folded neatly on the placemat. He could feel the killer’s pulse behind the image – a whisper of longing, not rage. The room began to tilt, the light refracting in strange, heavy ways. The hum of fluorescent bulbs deepened until it became a heartbeat.

He blinked and saw himself sitting in the empty chair.

A pulse under his skin. A voice that wasn’t his: This is my family now.

“Will,” Holly’s voice cut through, steady and deliberate. “You’re in too deep. Back up. What’s the first thing you smell?”

He drew in air – metallic, dust, cinnamon from the candles that had long since gone out. “Spices. Blood in the ductwork. The air’s still warm.”

“Good,” she said. “Stay with that. Just the air. Breathe like the world isn’t trying to eat you for once.”

The heartbeat faded. The chair emptied again.

Will straightened, letting out a shaky chuckle, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with a trembling hand. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” Holly said softly. “But you’re here.”

Jack’s silhouette lingered in the doorway, impatient, but even he didn’t interrupt that kind of moment.

--

Later, as the techs photographed the last of the evidence, Will leaned against the kitchen counter, staring at a tray of uneaten rolls gone hard at the edges.

“Jack,” he said, voice flat. “Why is Holly even on this?”

“Dr. Lecter recommended her,” Jack said, matter-of-fact. “Said she’s been helpful keeping you steady. Sharp mind, too. Profiler’s instincts.”

Will’s head turned just slightly. “Lecter recommended her?”

“That’s what he said. You trust him, right?”

Will didn’t answer.

--

Across the country, in her cramped university office, Holly had frozen mid-note when Jack’s voice came through the speakerphone: Dr. Lecter recommended you.

She’d managed a polite hum of acknowledgment, though the words curdled something in her stomach.

Hannibal Lecter – the man she tried her hardest to avoid and yet who kept appearing at the most inconvenient times, the one who smiled like he could taste your thoughts. She couldn’t say she disliked him; he seemed to genuinely help Will. But knowing what he was – a cannibal, at the very least – didn’t exactly endear him to her.

And now he was recommending her. To the FBI. To Jack Crawford.

“Wonderful,” she said evenly, though her pen was bending between her fingers. “Tell him I’m flattered.”

She didn’t tell Will how much the idea disturbed her. Not yet.

--

Will’s house was too empty without him.

Hannibal let himself in with the key Will had offered when he’d asked the doctor to help with the dogs. Snow fell in a light blur outside the windows, the world quiet as a breath. The dogs greeted him with cautious tails and trusting eyes – good creatures, untroubled by the moral architecture of men.

He knelt, letting Winston sniff his glove before scratching behind his ears. “You’re a loyal thing, aren’t you?” Hannibal murmured. “Loyalty is its own kind of mercy.”

He fed them one by one, careful, methodical, as if performing a sacrament.

After they settled, he wandered. He touched things the way one reads braille – fingertips over wood grain, leather, paper, the texture of a mind left unguarded. The small domestic order Will maintained felt like a lie, a mask for chaos.

On the coffee table: a folder of crime scene photos. Beside it, a small stack of handwritten notes in neat, looping familiar script – Dr. Holly Black.

He lifted one. Half analysis, half diary:

He’s losing sleep. The bleeding effect of his empathy seems to be increasing. I can ground him with sensory recall, similar to panic attacks, but I’m beginning to think this work is eroding his boundaries. I worry what Crawford is doing to Will will leave permanent scars.

Hannibal smiled, faint and fond.

He read further:

Sometimes, I wonder if we’re both standing too close to the fire and we just can’t see it, yet.

He placed the note back carefully, like something sacred.

Will Graham and Holly Black – two mirrors turned toward each other, reflecting light until it became heat. Both reaching for understanding, both flirting with ruin.

Not weak. Never weak. But soft in the way wet clay is soft – shapeable.

He glanced toward the dogs, now asleep by the hearth, and felt something almost like affection.

“They’ll break upon each other,” he said softly, carefully, and smiled. “Unless someone teaches them how not to.”

--

Snow hadn’t yet melted from the hospital’s courtyard, collecting like ash along the windowsills. The psych wing was hushed at night, the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint scent of disinfectant creating a fragile illusion of order.

Abigail Hobbs sat cross-legged on her bed, flipping through a magazine she wasn’t reading. Her stitches had healed, but she still touched them sometimes — as if to confirm they were real.

Dr. Alana Bloom watched from the doorway for a moment before stepping inside. “You’re awake late again.”

Abigail smiled without looking up. “The meds make me sleep too much. I like the quiet.”

Alana nodded and sat in the chair opposite her. “How are you feeling tonight?”

A pause. “Better.”

It was almost convincing.

Alana studied her a moment longer, fingers lightly tapping her clipboard. “You’ve mentioned Dr. Black several times lately.”

That earned a flicker of life from Abigail — an unguarded warmth. “She’s a friend. She listens.”

“She’s not part of your formal treatment team,” Alana said gently. “But it’s good that you feel supported.”

“She doesn’t look at me like a patient,” Abigail said, voice softening. “She talks to me like I’m… still a person.”

Alana made a quiet notation — emotional transference, early attachment. She didn’t mean to frown, but she did.

Abigail’s eyes followed the movement. “You think that’s bad.”

“I think,” Alana said carefully, “that sometimes the people who listen best can also become the hardest to let go of.”

Abigail looked away, lips pressing thin. “I don’t want to let go of her.”

--

The next morning, the hospital corridors smelled faintly of coffee and bleach. Alana stood by the observation glass, waiting for Hannibal Lecter. He arrived precisely on time, gloved, immaculate, a gentle smile settling over his features like a practiced ritual.

“Dr. Bloom,” he greeted. “You look tired. Overwork does not become you.”

“Neither does manipulation,” she replied evenly.

Hannibal’s brow arched — mildly amused, not offended. “You’ve already decided I’m manipulating you?”

“You’re manipulating Abigail,” Alana countered. “Encouraging her fixation on Dr. Black, undermining the structure we’re trying to build here.”

He folded his hands behind his back, unhurried. “Structure without agency breeds resentment. The girl’s mind has been caged long enough. Freedom, Dr. Bloom, is the first breath of recovery.”

“Or relapse,” Alana said.

They stood opposite each other like two mirrors reflecting different philosophies.

“She’s fragile,” Alana continued. “Too easily swayed. She looks to authority to feel safe.”

“And yet,” Hannibal mused, “authority has failed her at every turn. Her father, the Bureau, even her own conscience. Perhaps what she needs isn’t authority at all. Perhaps she needs trust — from someone she believes will not harm her.”

He didn’t have to say Holly. The implication was thick between them.

Alana crossed her arms. “You’re suggesting she should be in contact with an unlicensed academic who isn’t cleared for patient consultation?”

Hannibal’s eyes softened, the picture of understanding. “I’m suggesting that a trusted external influence might help stabilize her. Someone who speaks the language of empathy, as you do not.”

Alana’s jaw tightened. She caught the insult – quiet, polite, devastating.

“You think you’re the only one who can reach her,” she said finally. “But you’re not helping her heal, Hannibal. You’re teaching her how to hide.”

He smiled faintly. “Perhaps hiding is a kind of healing. Until she decides what she wants to become.”

--

That evening, Abigail sat by the hospital window, the world outside fading into the grey of early winter. The phone on her nightstand buzzed once – a single, secret vibration.

She hesitated before answering. “Dr. Black?”

Holly’s voice came through, warm but tired. “Hi, sweetheart. How are they treating you?”

Abigail exhaled shakily. “Like glass.”

“You’re not glass,” Holly said. “You broke once. The trick is learning which cracks hold the light.”

Abigail smiled faintly. “You always know what to say.”

There was a pause. Paper rustled on the other end – maybe one of Holly’s notebooks, the kind always crowded with tiny, looping handwriting. “Just… be careful who you trust, Abigail,” she said quietly. “Some people use care as a leash.”

Abigail looked toward the door, half expecting Hannibal’s silhouette in the frosted glass. “I know better now.”

Her tone trembled.

When the call ended, Abigail lay back against her pillow, staring at the ceiling. The words echoed – Some people use care as a leash – but the voice that lingered wasn’t Holly’s. It was Hannibal’s, soft and reassuring, the night he promised her: No one will ever hurt you again.

And she believed him.

--

The dining room glowed in amber light, a space too elegant to feel entirely human. The table was laid with clinical precision: silver catching the firelight, bone china gleaming, a centerpiece of winter herbs that smelled faintly of iron and sage.

Jack Crawford sat opposite Hannibal Lecter, suit jacket creasing at his elbows, the tension in his shoulders unsoftened even by the wine. The smell of roasted meat hung in the air – rich, faintly sweet, unfamiliar.

“What am I about to put in my mouth?” Jack said, eyeing his plate.

“Rabbit.” Hannibal responded easily.

“He should have hopped faster.” Jack said with a grin.

“Yes, he should have.” Hannibal agreed, his tone pleasant. “But, fortunately for us, he did not.”

Jack hummed approval, savoring the bite. “Dr. Black seemed to keep our friend Will grounded, today.”

Hannibal tilted his head slightly at the implied compliment. “They seem to complement each other well.”

“Your recommendation comes with a lot of credentials,” Jack continued, spearing another piece. “But she’s never applied for a profiling position at the Bureau.”

“My understanding,” Hannibal said, “is that she finds the bureaucracy and paperwork of the FBI to be tedious and ineffectual.”

Jack chuckled. “Heh. She’s not alone there.” He chewed, considering. “You think she’d be interested in maintaining a consultancy role like yours, for when Will’s… lost?”

Hannibal considered the question. “They are very close. Should this ever come to internal review, it might call their cases into question.”

Jack waved that away. “I’ll worry about that part.”

“Then… yes,” Hannibal said smoothly. “If only out of concern for Will himself.”

Jack nodded, thoughtful, and took another bite.

The fire snapped. The smell of rabbit deepened – or perhaps that was something else entirely, something faintly metallic beneath the herbs.

Jack looked down at his plate. “You’ve got an unsettling way of making sense, Doctor.”

“I’ve been accused of worse,” Hannibal said lightly.

Jack chuckled, tension easing. “Well, for what it’s worth, I appreciate the suggestion. If she keeps Will balanced, she’s worth keeping around.”

Hannibal inclined his head. “Balance is a delicate thing. Too much weight on one side, and even the strongest structure can collapse.”

Jack raised his glass. “Here’s hoping we don’t find out which side that is.”

They drank.

Hannibal watched him over the rim of his wineglass, his smile slight and satisfied. Jack’s remark about prey still hung in the air – unknowing, ironic, perfectly timed.

“Rabbit,” Hannibal repeated softly, savoring the word. “Such a misunderstood creature. Prey, yes. But only because it was foolish enough to trust the open field.”

Jack chuckled, oblivious. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’m sure you will,” Hannibal murmured.

The fire cracked again – a brief, sharp sound, like bone.

--

The video feed flickered with static before resolving into three faces – Will in a dim motel room, Alana in her office with sunlight slanting across her notes, and Holly framed by the warm lamplight of her campus apartment.

The case files spread across their screens showed what the press had dubbed The Lost Boys Murders: three families taken apart with ritual precision. Each home, each body, a mirror of the one before it.

“They’re not killing strangers,” Holly said, scanning the photos Jack had forwarded. Her voice was calm, but her eyes didn’t leave the images. “They’re looking for mirrors.”

Will’s hand hovered near his face, fingers twitching as if trying to trace invisible lines between the photos. “They’re killing to belong,” he murmured.

Holly met his gaze through the pixelated feed. “Exactly.”

Alana frowned slightly, glancing between them. “That’s an interesting leap, Will.”

“It’s not a leap,” Holly said before he could answer. “It’s… empathy refracted. If they see themselves in their victims, the killings aren’t punishment. They’re communion.”

The silence that followed felt dense, like fog. Alana looked at Holly a moment longer, assessing – not unkind, but wary.

“You sound like him,” she said finally, meaning Will.

Holly smiled faintly, defensive. “He’s contagious. I’m considering filing for hazard pay.”

“Or maybe you are,” Will said softly, fondly.

The connection hung there, fragile and luminous. Alana’s expression tightened. She made a few clinical notes, but her pen paused before the last one. Codependent affect, mirrored language patterns.

When the meeting ended, Will stayed staring at the blank screen long after the call disconnected.

--

That night, the phone rang again.

He didn’t bother with hello. “I keep seeing them,” Will said, voice raw. “The boys. The way they looked at each other. Like they knew it was coming.”

“Will,” Holly said, still half-asleep, “you’re projecting again.”

“I don’t know if I want to save them or stop them.”

A pause. Then, quieter: “Maybe those aren’t opposites.”

He exhaled, a shaky sound that might’ve been a laugh. “You’re starting to sound like me.”

“Or maybe you’re starting to sound like me,” she countered, and her voice softened. “Maybe saving them means stopping them.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full – of shared exhaustion, understanding, something darker neither dared name.

Finally Will said, “You think that makes us good people?”

“I think it makes us necessary,” she whispered.

He didn’t respond. She could hear him breathing – slow, uneven, as if trying to keep time with hers.

Outside her window, snow fell against the glass. In the dark, her reflection overlaid the streetlights like a double exposure. She wondered which of them was the mirror and which the original.

--

By morning, the case was over. One interrupted barbeque and one shot killer, the Lost Boys were broken apart once more.

Will didn’t call again that day, but Holly checked her phone constantly, thumb tracing the screen like a worry stone. When he finally did, hours later, it was just a text: We did what we had to.

She didn’t reply right away.

Because somewhere, deep in her chest, a part of her agreed.

--

The snow outside Hannibal’s townhouse had begun to melt into silvered rivulets, tracing the edges of the cobblestones like veins. Inside, warmth and light reigned – too precise, too deliberate to feel accidental. The fire burned low and steady, the table gleamed beneath its modest spread: root vegetables glazed to amber, bread crusted with salt, and a pot of pale, fragrant tea steaming between two cups.

Abigail sat across from him, still thin from the hospital, fingers fidgeting against her napkin. Hannibal poured her tea with ceremony, as though she were a guest of honor at some ancient rite.

“You must meet the world on your own terms again,” he said, voice gentle but firm. “Hiding will only make the shadows longer.”

Abigail nodded, eyes darting toward the window. “It still feels like everyone’s watching.”

“They are,” Hannibal said, with the faintest smile. “But they see what they expect to see. You are not what they expect.”

She looked down at her cup. The tea smelled faintly of earth and decay – mushrooms, honey, something green and wild beneath it.

Hannibal lifted his own cup, inhaling. “Taste.”

She obeyed. The flavor was strange – bittersweet, soft, alive in the way that soil after rain is alive. The warmth spread through her chest, loosening something tight in her ribs.

As she set the cup down, he began in that conversational, surgical way of his: “Dr. Black has been visiting you often.”

Abigail’s face brightened. “She’s been good to me. She doesn’t treat me like I’m fragile.”

“She is very kind,” Hannibal agreed. “Her kindness binds you to grief. It shelters you from pain, but in doing so, it also shelters you from growth.”

Abigail frowned. “She’s just… trying to help.”

“Yes,” Hannibal said softly. “She offers safety. But safety is not healing.”

Abigail’s fingers tightened around the cup. “Then what is?”

“Living,” Hannibal said. “Dr. Black represents survival, but survival is not living. You both can do so much more than survive.”

His voice had that cadence – slow, hypnotic, the rhythm of a sermon rather than a conversation. The room felt closer now, the light softer, the edges of things faintly blurred.

Abigail blinked hard. The table shimmered, plates breathing in subtle rhythm, steam rising like ghostly threads. Hannibal’s voice drifted through it all, low and warm.

“When you close your eyes, who do you see?”

“My father,” she whispered.

“Of course,” Hannibal said. “The mind clings to the pain that shaped it. But pain need not define you. It can be transformed.”

He reached across the table and touched her wrist – lightly, reassuringly. “Let it go. Replace it with someone worthy.”

Abigail’s breath hitched. Her eyelids fluttered as the tea deepened its hold. The firelight bent around the edges of her vision.

She saw her father’s face, the rough stubble of his chin, the smell of cold iron. Then it softened, features blurring, reforming – Hannibal’s gaze steady, merciful. Behind him, another image flickered: Holly, smiling faintly in the hospital garden, sunlight caught in her hair. The two figures overlapped, their warmth merging into something indistinct, divine.

“You are not your father’s daughter,” Hannibal murmured. “You are your own creation.”

Her lips parted. “Whose creation?”

Hannibal’s smile was quiet and endless. “Ours.”

When she blinked again, the room was still. The tea had gone cold.

--

That evening, Holly’s phone rang.

Alana’s voice came through brittle and controlled. “I wanted to talk to you about Abigail.”

Holly leaned back on her couch, the phone tucked between her ear and shoulder. “Is she all right?”

“She’s… improving,” Alana said. “But I’ve noticed her dependency on you growing. She’s been echoing your language, your tone. It’s not healthy. She needs to build her own identity, not borrow yours.”

Holly’s expression cooled. “Borrowing isn’t the same as dependence. Otherwise academia would’ve collapsed decades ago.”

“I understand your attachment,” Alana continued carefully, ignoring her sarcasm, “but the hospital agrees that your visits aren’t conducive to her recovery. I’m recommending we suspend them for now.”

The silence that followed was long enough that Alana nearly filled it herself.

When Holly finally spoke, her voice was calm. “If you think that’s best.”

“I do.”

“Then I’ll respect it,” Holly said. She ended the call before Alana could thank her.

Her hand tightened around the phone until her knuckles whitened. Alana joined Jack and Freddie on the quiet, growing list of people she trusted least.

After a moment, she scrolled through her contacts and pressed Call.

Abigail answered on the second ring, her voice soft. “Dr. Black?”

“Alana’s cutting me off,” Holly said flatly. “She doesn’t want me visiting you anymore.”

Abigail’s breath caught. “Why?”

“She thinks you’re depending on me too much.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” Holly said, “it’s not.”

The quiet between them thickened into solidarity, a shared resentment that felt like safety.

“Don’t let her change how you see me,” Holly said at last. For the smallest bit of levity, she added, “I’m perfectly charming in moderation.”

“I won’t.”

When the call ended, Holly sat in the dark a long time, phone still in hand. She didn’t notice the text that came through an hour later – an invitation from Hannibal Lecter. Dinner. To discuss Abigail’s progress.

--

The road was empty, veiled in thin mist and the glint of broken glass. Will stood barefoot in the gravel, breath fogging in the predawn air. The police cruiser idled nearby, its lights painting him in slow, pulsing red and blue. Winston sat beside him, tail thumping anxiously against the asphalt.

He didn’t remember leaving the house. He didn’t remember the dream.

His phone shook in his hand before he realized he was calling her.

“It’s getting worse,” Will said when Holly answered. His voice was low, frightened. “I sleepwalked several miles.”

“Where are you, Will?” Her tone was alert but gentle, the kind that cut through panic without trying to erase it. “I’ll come pick you up.”

He looked down at Winston, the only witness. “The police are driving me home,” he murmured. “Winston followed me.”

“Then I’ll meet you there.”

The call ended with the sound of tires turning on gravel.

By the time he got home, Holly’s car was already parked out front. She didn’t ask permission – just met him at the door, wrapped him in her coat, and steered him gently inside. The house smelled like cold earth and wet fur.

She coaxed him to sit on the couch, Winston curling protectively at his feet. “You’re burning up,” she said softly, pressing her palm against his forehead.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

She gave a quiet hum, noncommittal, then settled beside him, drawing him down until his head rested against her shoulder. “Try to sleep,” she murmured.

He did, eventually. Holly stayed awake, the firelight flickering over his face, watching him twitch and murmur in half-formed dreams. She could feel the heat in him – the fever of too much empathy, of a mind stretched past its limit. Her thumb traced slow circles along his wrist, an anchor.

Somewhere in her mind, a thought took shape, unwelcome but persistent: This job is killing him.

--

Later that morning, Hannibal wrote in his journal.

“Her voice steadies him. Her judgment guides him. They are fascinating – separate and yet conjoined as they are. A symbiosis of emotion and intellect. They would make a remarkable study in controlled and directed empathy.”

He paused, pen hovering over the paper. The phrasing pleased him. Controlled and directed.

What Will lacked in self-discipline, Holly supplied through compassion. What Holly lacked in instinct for violence, Will carried unconsciously in every motion. Together, they could almost approximate him.

Almost.

Hannibal closed the journal with deliberate grace, his mind already shaping the next movement of this delicate sonata. Not separation. Not destruction. Refinement.

--

Abigail jerked awake, heart pounding. The nightmare still clung to her - her father’s face in the dark, the slick pull of the knife, the weight of his body hitting the floor.

She found Hannibal seated in his study, as if he’d been waiting.

“I should tell Holly the truth,” she said before she lost her nerve. “About Nicholas Boyle. About what I did.”

Hannibal looked up from his book. His expression was calm, sorrowful in a way that felt practiced. “No, Abigail. Dr. Black is kind, but kindness is rarely forgiving.”

Abigail shook her head. “She’d understand.”

“Perhaps. But understanding is not absolution.”

He rose, walking toward her with the patient rhythm of a confessor. “Let her love you as she believes you to be. That love will do you more good than her judgment ever could.”

Abigail’s throat tightened. “You think she’d hate me.”

“I think she would try not to,” Hannibal said gently. “And that would break her heart. You would not want to break her heart, would you?”

“No,” she whispered.

“Good.”

He smiled faintly, smoothing her hair back. “Then rest. The world can wait for truth. It rarely deserves it.”

--

By the time Holly returned to her apartment, the sun had fully risen. Daphne was waiting on the couch, phone in hand, eyes sharp.

“Care to explain,” she said, “why Blaise’s mother had to tell me about you being attacked last week?”

Holly sighed, setting down her bag. “I didn’t want to make a thing out of it.”

“It is a thing, Hol. You got cornered in a parking lot.”

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Daphne crossed her arms. “You sound fine.”

Holly rubbed her temples, the exhaustion finally catching up to her. “Can we not do this right now?”

Daphne’s expression softened. “All right. Fine. But you’re scaring people. And you look like hell.”

That drew a small, tired laugh. “That’s because I drove to Wolf Trap at two in the morning to pick up Will.”

“Of course you did,” Daphne said dryly. “And how is your troubled FBI boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Holly said automatically, even though, at this point, he very much was.

“Sure.” Daphne let the subject pivot. “What about this gala you mentioned? The one Will might come to if Jack doesn’t steal him away?”

“Don’t even get me started on Jack Crawford.”

“Oh, I’m listening,” Daphne said, settling in.

“Picture a bureaucratic bull in a moral china shop,” Holly said. “Now give him a badge and a vendetta against empathy.”

And Holly started in about Jack running Will into the ground, about Alana Bloom barring her from seeing Abigail, about the suffocating incompetence of the Bureau. The anger in her voice surprised even her; it came out sharp, brittle, alive.

Daphne didn’t interrupt. When Holly’s tirade finally waned into silence, Daphne simply smiled. “You know,” she said, “you don’t usually let yourself hate people. It’s kind of refreshing.”

Holly snorted, sinking into the couch. “Feels disgusting. Guess hate’s an acquired taste.”

“Try a hot shower and this,” Daphne said, rummaging in her bag and producing a small jar of cream. “Salve. The good kind. For when your boy toy’s shoulders seize up from all that brooding. Works miracles.”

Holly arched an eyebrow but took it, unscrewing the lid and inhaling the herbal scent. “Lavender and – something stronger.”

“Juniper. Eucalyptus. Whatever else that witch in Dupont puts in it.”

Holly’s smile was faint but genuine. “Maybe he could use a miracle.”

Daphne leaned back. “Couldn’t we all?”

Chapter Text

The National Museum gleamed under a canopy of light and champagne chatter. The Charity Gala Nick had roped her into was a yearly event, always a tedious, glittering ordeal: too many sequins, too much perfume, and enough political posturing to choke a senator. Holly had learned long ago how to navigate it with polite smiles and strategic avoidance, usually accompanied by Blaise, his mother, or Daphne.

Tonight, though, she was alone.

Jack Crawford had called Will out to some godforsaken motel two hours before the event – a case involving a body posed in a grotesque parody of prayer. Will had hesitated at the door, apologizing, and Holly had kissed his cheek with what grace she could muster. Go, she’d told him. You’d just brood through this anyway.

Now she stood in the museum’s east hall surrounded by marble, music, and men who smelled faintly of cologne and ambition, her clutch digging into her palm. A string quartet murmured in the background. Somewhere, a waiter laughed too loudly.

She thought grimly: If I make it through this without homicide, it will be a miracle.

--

Her only consolation was that Hannibal Lecter was not here. He’d been invited – of course he had – but apparently something in his schedule had conflicted. Holly had been bracing herself for the tight, polite conversation they would inevitably share if he had attended, full of double meanings and immaculate diction.

Instead, her eyes found someone far more tolerable.

“Ellen Komeda,” she said, relieved, approaching the crime writer who was studying a portrait near the far wall. “You’re saving me from throwing myself down the museum stairs.”

Ellen turned, her grin immediate and genuine. “And you look like you might actually do it. My dear, who in God’s name decided gold sequins were professional attire?”

Holly smirked, taking in Ellen’s dark plum dress and dramatic eyeliner. “Says the woman who looks like she’s about to host a séance.”

Ellen gestured with her glass. “It’s called having a brand.”

“Your brand is terrifying.”

“And yet here you are, seeking my company.”

Holly’s laugh was soft, grateful. “It was either you or the Assistant Deputy Director who’s been ogling me since I walked in. You win.”

Ellen’s eyes sparkled. “Then come along, we’ll stand near the most disturbing exhibit we can find. That’ll keep the amateurs away.”

--

They planted themselves beside an ancient Roman sarcophagus. It worked. The crowd thinned, unwilling to mingle too close to an object carved with skulls and angels.

For the next hour, they talked shop. Autopsy details, case files, the macabre poetry of crime scene staging – topics guaranteed to send partygoers scattering. One overly confident analyst wandered too close, wine glass in hand, and fled within five minutes when Ellen began describing the texture of mummified tissue.

“Repellent and effective,” Ellen declared once he was gone.

“Like mosquito spray,” Holly agreed, smiling behind her drink.

They spoke of writing and research, and Ellen’s fascination with the grotesque came out in full. “There’s something purifying about horror,” she mused. “It strips the world down to its essentials. Fear, hunger, the need to survive.”

“That’s one way to justify your fascination with corpses,” Holly teased.

“Please, as if yours is any healthier.”

Holly lifted her glass in salute. “Touché.”

--

Later, under softer lighting and softer music, their conversation drifted to personal territory. Ellen leaned in conspiratorially. “I read about your…incident. The attack. You poor thing. TattleCrime had the photo of you afterward – Will Graham carrying you out like a gothic romance cover. Honestly, I almost swooned.”

Holly rolled her eyes but felt a flush at her ears. “That woman would sell her own mother’s autopsy photos for clicks.”

“Yes, but still,” Ellen pressed, delighted by her discomfort. “Is it true? You and Will?”

Holly hesitated for only a second, then smiled. “Yes. The man in that photo is my partner. My very exhausted, perpetually underfed, occasionally endearing partner.”

Ellen’s face softened. “I’m happy for you.” Then, almost wistful, “Though I admit a touch of disappointment. You and Hannibal Lecter always seemed to have such – what’s the word – chemistry. Intellectual sparks flying everywhere.”

Holly’s laugh came out sharp. One cannibal in a lifetime is quite enough, thank you. She thought to herself.

“Ah, I’m afraid I don’t have his tastes.” She said instead.

Ellen hummed knowingly, “The man is known for his eccentric palate.”

You don’t even know, Ellen. Though her mind betrayed her with the ghost of a thought: Hannibal’s hands steady as he poured wine, the low cadence of his voice, the careful precision that made everything he did seem deliberate, intimate.

If she hadn’t sensed the wrongness that first dinner, the metallic tang beneath the sauce – if she hadn’t looked too closely – perhaps she might have entertained the idea. But she had, and the knowledge sat forever between them like a blade wrapped in silk.

Ellen misread her silence as nostalgia. “He is rather striking,” she admitted. “And brilliant. It’s almost unfair.”

“Brilliance doesn’t make him safe,” Holly murmured.

Ellen looked at her curiously, but Holly only smiled and steered the conversation toward less dangerous waters: publishing deadlines, mutual acquaintances, the ethics of true crime as literature. By the time Ellen left – citing an early flight – the museum had begun to empty, and Holly was alone again.

--

The quiet came back like static. She took one last circuit around the room, feeling the weight of stares follow her like insects drawn to light.

“Excuse me, Miss Black?”

A man in a tuxedo intercepted her path, smile all teeth and entitlement. “Mind if I keep you company for a drink?”

She didn’t bother hiding the sigh. “You just did. Thank you.”

He blinked, thrown off, and tried again. “You work with the FBI, right? Must be fascinating. Maybe you could – ”

“Discuss corpses over cocktails?” she suggested sweetly. “You’d faint before I finished the first sentence.”

He laughed awkwardly. “You’re joking, right?”

“Try me.”

He retreated, muttering something about “intense women.” Holly downed the rest of her champagne and set the glass on a passing tray.

--

Outside, the night was cooler, the city alive with distant sirens and wind through trees. She stood for a moment under the museum’s columns, rubbing her bare arms.

A few years ago, she would’ve gone home to an empty apartment, turned on some old black-and-white film, and let the world shrink around her. Now, she would call Will.

He’d be tired, maybe still hunched over a motel desk, papers scattered, dogs waiting for him back home. But he’d answer.

And she’d hear his voice, and for a little while, the glittering absurdity of the evening would fade into something small and harmless.

--

She took a deep breath, allowed herself a quiet, ironic smile, and started walking toward her car.

Another gala survived. No cannibals. Minimal homicide temptation.

By her standards, that counted as a success.

--

The hum of Quantico’s fluorescent lights was too bright for the hour. Holly’s heels clicked softly on the linoleum as she made her way down the hall, balancing two heavy paper bags against her hip. Her gala dress glittered faintly under the sterile lighting – utterly out of place in the forensic lab’s practical gloom.

Through the glass, she could see them: Will bent over a light table, Beverly and the boys – Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller – clustered around a monitor. The air of exhaustion was palpable even through the door.

She tapped the glass lightly with her knuckle. Zeller glanced up, blinked, and elbowed Beverly. “Uh, guys,” he said, grinning, “either I’m hallucinating or dinner just arrived wrapped in an evening gown.”

Will’s head jerked up, surprise flickering into warmth. He crossed the lab in a few strides to open the door for her. “You didn’t have to come,” he said, voice gravelly from too many hours and too little rest.

“Technically, I didn’t.” She lifted one of the bags in triumph. “But I also know you haven’t eaten since noon, and Beverly texted me that you were all being held hostage by your own work ethic.”

“Bless you,” Beverly said immediately, swooping in to relieve her of a bag. “What’s the damage?”

“Pad Thai, dumplings, and some kind of miracle soup that claims to cure exhaustion.” Holly smiled as Jimmy produced plastic forks like sacred relics. “Enough for all of you.”

Zeller unfolded a takeout box with reverence. “Will, you’ve been hiding this woman from us. I’m deeply offended.”

Beverly, ever the voice of reason – or mischief – swatted him with a napkin. “Leave her alone, Zeller. Some of us have met her and know better than to provoke her.”

Jimmy snickered. “Too late. He’s already got chopsticks in his foot-in-mouth.”

Holly chuckled, leaning against the counter as Will took a container and set it aside for himself. “You’re all far too polite. Usually I terrify people after they read my reports.”

Zeller grinned. “That’s the problem – you write too well. The grammar’s intimidating.”

Will rolled his eyes, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Ignore them,” he murmured, resting a hand at the small of her back for just a second – quiet, grounding contact that felt more intimate than any kiss.

The team dug in, the room softening with the smell of warm food and the rhythm of shared fatigue. Beverly perched on a stool, chopsticks gesturing midair as she told a story about a crime scene mix-up that made Jimmy snort tea up his nose.

For a brief moment, it didn’t feel like a morgue or a midnight lab. It felt human.

Holly caught Will watching her between bites – his eyes tired but fond – and felt the tension of the evening slide from her shoulders. She nudged a carton toward him. “Eat. I’ll scold you later.”

He obeyed, too tired to argue.

The laughter and clatter of takeout boxes filled the sterile air, a fragile, fleeting pocket of normalcy amid the ghosts.

--

By the time the takeout boxes were picked clean and the caffeine was flowing again, the lab had softened into something almost domestic.

Zeller and Jimmy were bickering over who had stolen the last dumpling, Beverly was recounting a story about a cat that had solved its owner’s murder, and Will – finally, blessedly – was leaning against the counter with a faint half-smile on his face that Holly hadn’t seen all week.

When the chatter turned into a friendly argument about who had the worst boss, Holly caught Will’s eye. His shoulders slumped, a silent question hovering between them. She tilted her head toward the hall. He nodded.

They slipped out unnoticed, ghosts moving through the sterile corridors. The late hour had swallowed most of Quantico’s noise; only the hum of lights and the faint whisper of the air vents followed them.

In Will’s office, the door clicked softly shut behind her. He didn’t bother turning on the overheads, just the desk lamp. The pool of amber light cast long shadows across the stacks of case files, the half-drunk coffee, the sleeping laptop.

He leaned back against the desk, the exhaustion in his body settling like gravity. When he reached for her, she went easily, stepping between his knees. His arms wrapped around her waist, and he let his head drop against her chest.

For a while, neither spoke.

Holly stroked her fingers through his curls, slow and steady. The texture was familiar – the feel of grounding someone through touch. She brushed the back of his neck with her nails until she felt his breath even out, his shoulders sink.

“You smell like pad thai and crime scenes,” she murmured, lips curving faintly.

“Better than blood and formaldehyde.” His voice was muffled against her.

“I didn’t say it was a complaint.”

They stayed like that, the silence deepening. The laughter from the lab was only a dull echo now, distant and harmless. For a moment, the world outside that dim room ceased to exist. Holly’s eyes drifted shut, counting the rhythm of his breathing.

Eventually, curiosity – or maybe irritation – broke the quiet. “Where’s Crawford, if everyone else is here working?” she asked softly. “Didn’t see him in the lab.”

Will didn’t move. “Dinner. At Hannibal’s. With his wife.”

Holly blinked. “He’s at a dinner party while you’re here half-dead on your feet.”

“Pretty much.”

Her jaw tightened. The man had his team combing through grisly photos while he dined in luxury. With Hannibal, of all people. She swallowed a bitter laugh. “You know, I shouldn’t be surprised. Still feels obscene.”

Will hummed in agreement, noncommittal, the sound vibrating through her ribs.

Holly’s mind conjured an image she shouldn’t enjoy: Jack Crawford at Hannibal’s table, smug and self-satisfied, unaware that the man across from him might be serving him something carved from a corpse. It was petty, vindictive – and deeply satisfying.

One dinner with poetic justice. That’s all I ask.

The thought made her lips twitch, equal parts guilt and grim humor. She’d never claim sainthood, especially where Jack Crawford was concerned.

After a while, Will straightened, brushing a stray curl from his face. He studied her, eyes weary but softer than before. Then, wordlessly, he leaned in and kissed her.

It wasn’t a desperate kiss, just long enough to say I’m still here.

When they parted, his forehead rested against hers. “Our guy,” he murmured, “we think he has a brain tumor. Temporal lobe, maybe parietal. It’s making him see things – angels, wings, a kind of… divine hallucination. He’s terrified of dying, so he’s making angels out of his victims to watch over him while he sleeps.”

Holly kept her hands at his shoulders, grounding him again. “That’s – horrifying. But also sad.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. The hallucinations… they’re too familiar. The way he plays them out.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m not that far gone.”

Holly’s stomach clenched. She tilted his chin up until his eyes met hers. “Will, no. You’re not him.”

“You haven’t seen what’s in my head,” he said, almost gently.

“Maybe not,” she admitted, “but I know brain tumors don’t make people empathic like you. They don’t make people kind, even when it hurts. That’s all you.” She hesitated. “Still… maybe get checked out? Just to rule it out?”

He huffed a quiet, humorless laugh. “And if they say there’s nothing there? That it’s just me losing it?”

“Then we deal with that. Together.”

His answering smile was small, sad, grateful. “You make it sound simple.”

“It’s not. But you’re not alone in it.”

He kissed her again, softer this time. The kind of kiss that existed between breaths. She cupped his face, thumb brushing the faint stubble along his jaw.

The knock came too soon.

“Hey, Graham?” Zeller’s voice, hesitant but amused. “Results just came through – we need you in the lab.”

Will’s sigh was long-suffering. He pulled back, squeezing her waist lightly. “Duty calls.”

“I’ll see myself out,” she said, masking her disappointment.

When he opened the door, Zeller stood waiting with his usual sheepish grin – until his gaze flicked to Holly. It lingered for a heartbeat too long, sliding over the dress, the tousled hair, the telltale intimacy of the moment.

Will’s expression cooled instantly, not anger, but that sharp, assessing stillness he wore in interrogation rooms.

Zeller, oblivious or pretending to be, stepped aside to let Will pass. “Nice to finally meet you properly, Miss Black,” he said, still smiling.

“Likewise,” Holly replied dryly.

They walked off together down the corridor, voices receding. Holly could hear Zeller’s parting comment echo faintly through the hall: “Man, you really scored that, huh?”

She sighed. Of course. Why did some men treat affection like a trophy, romance as an obstacle course with a prize at the end?

Rolling her eyes, she grabbed her coat and stepped into the cool night air.

The wind smelled of rain and late hours. She crossed the parking lot slowly, letting the quiet settle around her. Somewhere behind those lab windows, Will was working himself into the ground again, bending toward a case that mirrored his own fears.

Holly unlocked her bike and swung her leg over, helmet in hand. The engine rumbled to life.

The last thing she saw before pulling away was the faint glow of Quantico, steady against the dark.

--

The click of her apartment door echoed too loud in the quiet.

Holly stepped inside, half-blind with fatigue, the hem of her gown whispering against the floor. The golden sequins that had seemed almost elegant at the gala now looked absurd under the dim apartment lighting – remnants of a world that felt too far removed from reality. She dropped her helmet and clutch bag on the kitchen table with a hollow thud.

The apartment smelled faintly of old tea leaves and the cedar polish she used on her bookshelves. Safe. Familiar. Ordinary.

She kicked off her heels, sighed, and reached for the small pile of mail waiting on the counter. It was a ritual – mundane, grounding, the perfect antidote to a night of shallow conversation and ghosts in silk gloves.

“Junk. School funding newsletter. Tax documents. Motorcycle plate renewal.” She muttered to herself, tossing envelopes into neat piles.

Then her thumb brushed one that didn’t belong.

Her breath caught.

A cream envelope. Expensive paper. Her name, written in an elegant, looping hand she didn’t recognize. The return address was the wrong kind of familiar – typed neatly in black ink.

Astoria Greengrass.

The name punched the air from her lungs.

Holly dropped the envelope as though it had burned her. It landed face-up against the dark wood.

For several long seconds she just stared. Her pulse drummed behind her eyes. The room seemed to tilt, edges going soft.

Astoria had been dead for years.

Her fingers trembled once before she forced them to still. “No,” she said aloud to no one. “No, no, no.”

She backed away, heart hammering, and turned toward the fireplace. The words came out steady despite the panic crawling up her throat. “Daphne. Now.”

A green flare of Floo powder lit the room with an eerie glow. Moments later, Daphne Greengrass stepped through, brushing soot from her skirt, a half-amused smile already forming.

“Really, Holly, it’s nearly one in the morn– ”

The sight of Holly’s face stopped her cold.

“What happened?”

Holly didn’t answer. She just pointed.

Daphne followed her gaze. Her expression softened in confusion, then hardened into pure fury when she read the name. “That’s not funny,” she said sharply, though Holly hadn’t laughed. “That’s not – ” She stopped herself, exhaled slowly. “Where did this come from?”

“It was with my mail.”

“Owl service?”

“Could’ve been. Or the post.”

Daphne’s jaw set. She drew her wand with a flick that was all precision and anger. “Then let’s see what bastard thought this was clever.”

Her diagnostic spells shimmered faintly in the air. Each result made her frown deepen.

“No tracking charms. No curses. No signature. Nothing.” She swore softly and tried again. The outcome didn’t change.

Holly rubbed her arms. “Didn’t think there would be. But I hoped.”

“You hoped for a magical signature?” Daphne asked, incredulous.

“It would’ve been something. Something to trace.”

The women locked eyes. Daphne’s fury met Holly’s weary fear, two versions of the same emotion. Finally Daphne nodded toward the letter. “We open it together.”

Holly hesitated, then picked it up. The weight was wrong – too thick for a simple note, too flat for much else. She slid her finger under the seal and tore it open.

Inside were photographs. Wizarding ones.

They fanned out across the table in grim monochrome:

A house, stately and pale, its architecture vaguely European. Stone façade, ivy swaying idly on the walls, windows too tall for any modern building.

Another photograph – a sitting room, the entire frame moving jaggedly on repeat at the edges like the lens had trembled a bit. The furnishings were old-fashioned, ornate. A rug patterned with crimson vines.

The last one stopped her. A body – half in frame, half out, face turned away, one arm twisted under. Blood pooled darkly beneath it, already dried. Whoever had taken the picture hadn’t even tried to stage it. The corpse was an afterthought.

Daphne leaned close, frowning. “Do you recognize the place?”

“No. Maybe France? Or Austria? The design’s… continental, but there’s nothing distinct. Nothing to date it either.”

“And the body?”

Holly shook her head. The man – or woman, she couldn’t entirely tell – was dressed in dark fabric, likely a cloak, the picture too grainy to discern much more. “It’s familiar, though. The angle. The wall color. I’ve seen it before.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

They stared at the photos until the silence became unbearable.

Finally, Daphne straightened, pacing. “It could be Skeeter. You said she’s likely going to escalate, yes? Maybe this is her idea of rattling you.”

“This isn’t her style.”

“Then who?”

“I don’t know that either,” Holly said quietly. “For all I know, they could be watching me right now, knowing I can’t do any magic to protect myself.”

That landed like a stone.

Daphne’s face hardened, fear bleeding into resolve. She raised her wand. “Then we fix that.”

Her spellwork filled the apartment with golden light, threads of molten silk weaving through walls and air. Wards upon wards, layering until the very air hummed with charge. Holly stood still, letting her work. The sound was almost comforting – Daphne muttering under her breath, the rhythmic swish of her wand.

When the last shimmer faded, the room smelled faintly of ozone. Daphne was pale with exertion but sharp-eyed. “No one’s getting through that without a fight.” She sank into a chair.

“Tea?” Holly asked automatically. Habit was all she had left.

Daphne nodded wordlessly.

While the kettle hissed, Holly’s gaze drifted back to the photographs. They sat innocently on the table, quiet horrors. Whoever sent them wanted her attention. And they had it.

When she returned with two cups, Daphne was still staring at the envelope like she could burn a hole through it.

“I could kill them,” she said conversationally, wrapping her hands around the mug. “Whoever they are. Just – zap. Gone. I’d sleep better.”

“You always say that,” Holly murmured, handing her the cup.

“I always mean it.”

They drank in silence. The hum of the wards had faded to a faint vibration underfoot.

Holly’s exhaustion settled in like a weight. The paranoia coiled tighter in her chest. “You ever think,” she said finally, voice low, “that it would just be easier to leave it all? Pack up, vanish, live in the woods somewhere. No mail. No stalkers. Just quiet.”

Daphne tilted her head. “You could.”

“Will would come. As long as he could bring the dogs.” The thought made her smile for a heartbeat. Then the smile died. “But it wouldn’t last. It never does.”

Daphne said nothing. Instead, she picked up the photographs again, studying the edges like she could pull truth from the grain. When she looked up, there was fire behind her eyes.

“I’ll find out who this is. Who that body belongs to. Where that house is. And then I’ll find whoever sent it.” She smiled thinly. “They’ll regret it.”

Holly believed her.

Before stepping back into the fireplace, Daphne paused, her reflection flickering in the green flames. “Holly… you think this stalker and Skeeter might be working together?”

Holly stared into her tea. “I don’t know.”

Daphne’s expression hardened. “Then I’ll find out.”

The flames swallowed her whole, and silence reclaimed the room.

Holly stood for a long moment, then reached for the firewhiskey. Her hands shook as she poured.

The first swallow burned all the way down. The second steadied her heartbeat. The third numbed the edges of thought.

The photographs remained on the table – mute, accusing.

She sank into the sofa, the bottle cradled loosely in her hands.

With this escalation, she realized, she couldn’t keep pretending it would resolve itself. She’d have to tell Will – at least about the stalker. Maybe, someday soon, about the rest: the magic, the past, the whole impossible truth.

But not tonight.

Will was already unraveling under his own ghosts. Adding hers might break him completely.

She took another long drink and let the world blur.

When the bottle was half-empty and her reflection swayed in the windowpane, she whispered, “How did it come to this?”

The apartment didn’t answer.

Only the wards hummed faintly in response—a fragile promise against a darkness that already knew her name.

--

Will looked worse than she’d ever seen him.

When he opened the door, the man standing there could have been a ghost wearing Will Graham’s face. The lines around his mouth had deepened, his eyes rimmed in red, and his hands fidgeted restlessly — the telltale sign that his mind wouldn’t stop turning. The dogs clustered behind him, tails wagging in uncertain rhythm, trying in their wordless way to anchor him.

Holly didn’t say a word. She just stepped forward. “Come on. Let’s sit down.”

He obeyed without argument — Will Graham rarely did when she used that tone. He moved like someone pulled apart by invisible strings and sank into the couch as if gravity had won.

She followed, settling beside him. The silence pressed in, familiar and suffocating. She could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator, the soft snuffling of Winston at Will’s feet.

“Ohio?” she asked at last.

He nodded, eyes unfocused. “Heaven help me, I almost drove straight past the exit.” A pause, then: “Another angel-maker. Same devotion. Same signature. The walls were covered this time — hundreds of eyes painted in blood. Watching.”

Holly’s stomach turned, but her voice stayed even. “Did they catch him?”

He shook his head. “No. Just the aftermath. He’s escalating, and Jack…” His voice faltered, split between fury and exhaustion. “Jack wants me to keep going. To get inside his head. As if I haven’t been living there already.”

There it was — the sharp edge under the weariness.

“You told him you needed time off?”

Will gave a hollow laugh. “He said — and I quote — ‘You’re the only one who can understand him, Will. Don’t make me assign someone who can’t.’”

“Meaning if you stop, someone dies.”

“Exactly.”

Anger flared bright and immediate in her chest. She’d seen this before — Will trembling after late nights, muttering about mirrors and ghosts, his empathy gnawing holes through him while Jack handed him another case to fill them.

“He’s abusing you,” she said before she could stop herself.

Will blinked, caught off guard by her bluntness.

“He’s using you,” she pressed, voice rising. “Every case, every crime scene — he winds you tighter because he knows you’ll keep going until you break.”

Will exhaled, slow and hollow. “Hannibal says Jack sees me as an instrument. A tuning fork for violence.”

“He’s not wrong,” she admitted, scowling because it hurt to agree with him.

That earned her a faint, wry smile. “You sound like him.”

“Don’t insult me,” she said, soft but sharp.

Silence again — not empty, but weighted. The kind that breathes between people who’ve already said too much. Holly reached for his hand. It was cold, rough, trembling faintly.

“You’ve been unraveling since you started this job,” she murmured. “I’ve watched it happen. You wake up screaming. You see things that aren’t there. It’s eating you alive, and Jack keeps feeding it.”

Will didn’t argue. He just squeezed her hand once, a small, defeated gesture.

“I know,” he said.

Something in her cracked at the quiet honesty of it.

She shifted closer, her shoulder brushing his. Neither of them spoke again. The house felt too small for all the ghosts they’d invited in.

--

Later, in bed, the world shrank to soft sheets and the rise and fall of their breathing. The dogs settled around them like a protective perimeter. For a little while, the horror stories and the photographs and the bloodstained rooms faded. Holly let her mind drift.

Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow I’ll tell him about the letter, about the stalker, about everything.

Will’s head rested against her shoulder, his breath steady against her skin. He felt safe like this – warm, human, tethered. She fell asleep with one hand in his hair, as though she could keep him anchored there by touch alone.

--

The barking woke her before dawn.

Winston first, then the others — a sharp, frantic chorus that ripped through the quiet and yanked her from sleep.

The bed beside her was empty. Sheets cold.

“Will?”

No answer.

She threw on her robe and ran barefoot through the hallway. The dogs clustered by the back door, hackles raised, eyes darting between her and the glass.

Then she saw it — movement on the roof through the kitchen window. A shadow pacing the ridge line.

Her heart stopped.

She was outside before thought caught up, the grass wet and cold beneath her feet. “Will!”

He froze. Turned. His face was pale in the thin half-light, eyes glassy and unmoored.

“Holly?”

“Don’t move,” she said, keeping her voice even. “Just—don’t move too suddenly, love.”

He blinked, as if surfacing. “I… I was dreaming.”

“I know,” she said. “You’re okay. Just come down to me.”

He hesitated, then moved toward the ladder by the shed. His steps were careful, slow, puppet-like. She climbed halfway to meet him, hands gripping his arms, grounding him, willing him back to gravity.

When his feet hit the earth, she pulled him close, heart pounding so hard it made her teeth ache. The dogs pressed in, whining, circling his legs as if to herd him back inside.

“It’s okay,” she whispered against his temple. “You’re okay.”

His breath shuddered. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” she said again, steady as she could manage.

They stayed like that for a long time, shivering in the early cold. Her fingers traced the back of his neck, feeling the tremors fade, counting each breath like proof of life.

Finally, his voice came small and raw. “I could’ve fallen.”

“You didn’t,” she murmured. “You’re here.”

He nodded, but his eyes were still far away — somewhere high and dangerous.

She guided him back inside, eased him into a chair while she fetched a blanket. The first light of morning slipped over the windows, soft and colorless. Will looked spent, frightened.

When she sat beside him, he reached for her hand like it was the only thing left tethering him.

“Something’s wrong with me,” he said quietly.

“No,” she told him, firm, though the denial felt fragile in her mouth. “Something’s hurting you. There’s a difference.”

He didn’t argue — just stared down at their joined hands, breathing like each one cost him thought.

Holly brushed her thumb over his knuckles. Her mind was already turning, sharp and practical beneath the fear. The stalker. The letter. The photos. She’d planned to tell him, but not like this — not when he was shaking and hollow-eyed from dreams he didn’t remember.

If she told him now, he’d take it as proof of failure — as something else he hadn’t saved her from. It would gut him.

She couldn’t let that happen.

She’d find another way. Someone who could help without breaking him further.

For now, she just held him. The dogs settled around their feet, quiet at last. Dawn crept in through the curtains — a thin, patient light.

Holly rested her head against his and whispered, “It’s all right, Will. I’ve got you.”

And, quieter still, only for herself:

I’ll fix this. Even if it means asking help from the devil himself.

--

Holly stepped through the doors, a box of lavender-honey macarons tucked under one arm, the scent a calculated calm. She’d made them that morning on purpose: ground almonds sifted twice, honey warmed just enough to bloom the lavender but not scorch it. Not exactly an apology — she didn’t see what she’d be apologizing for — more a peace offering. Delicate, disarming. Useful for a man she couldn’t quite bring herself to trust but couldn’t afford to alienate either.

When she reached his outer office, the door was already open, his patient having already left for the day. She peaked her head in, Hannibal spotting her immediately.

“Lady Black,” Hannibal said smoothly, rising from behind his desk. “You’re a sight far more pleasant than paperwork.”

He moved like music – fluid, unhurried – guiding her gallantly from the doorway further into the room.

Holly smiled faintly and extended the box. “I come bearing sweets instead of steak. I wasn’t about to challenge your reputation in the kitchen.”

“Wise of you,” he replied, amusement glinting in his eyes as he accepted the gift. “Lavender and honey – how lovely. A rare combination, and not an easy one to balance.”

“I learned from some skilled individuals,” she said. “The mother of a friend of mine, actually. Her fourth husband was a Michelin-starred chef.”

Hannibal undid the silk ribbon with a surgeon’s precision. “Then I’m doubly honored.”

He lifted the lid. Six perfect macarons, pale gold with a faint purple dusting. He inhaled once, and a smile curved his mouth. “Exquisite. The care you put into these is… evident.”

“Practice,” Holly replied lightly, though her fingers were folded too tightly in her lap.

He moved the pastries to a covered dish as if delaying pleasure were an art. Holly let her eyes roam the room. It was beautiful in that particular way danger pretends to be harmless: two tiers of dark wood shelves, philosophy, anatomy, poetry; a rolling ladder; a marble fireplace crowned with an old painting of a stag in snow. Sketches lay on a sideboard — charcoal studies of hand and bone so precise they were clinical.

She paused over one series of hands — some graceful, some grotesque — and found herself tracing the air above the paper.

“You draw,” she said softly. “Beautifully.”

“I study,” Hannibal corrected, gentle. “Observation is the first act of compassion.”

“That’s one way to put it.” Her smile was small and dry.

“Please,” he said, waving toward the sitting area by the fire. “Sit. You didn’t come merely to feed me.”

She hesitated, then sat. The couch swallowed her. He poured tea with the kind of economy that made every motion seem inevitable.

“I wanted to talk about Will,” she said, letting the sentence out like something practical and unromantic.

Hannibal met her eyes, then poured his cup. “Of course.”

“I know you’ve noticed how Jack treats him,” she continued, words spilling faster now that she’d begun. “The late nights, the constant pressure. He pushes and pushes until Will breaks, and then pretends it’s all part of the process.”

“I have noticed,” Hannibal said, calm and sympathetic. “Jack Crawford has a… utilitarian relationship with Will’s empathy.”

“That’s a polite way of saying he’s cruel.”

“Politeness is simply cruelty wearing a nicer coat,” Hannibal observed.

Holly almost laughed; the humor had an edge. “Will’s not sleeping. He’s losing time. He’s —” she stopped, thumb worrying the rim of her cup. “He’s slipping. I don’t know how much more he can take. I watch it happen, piece by piece.”

Hannibal’s face softened — the perfect facsimile of concern. “Will’s mind is remarkable. Fragile things, when strained, either shatter or transform.”

“You make it sound inevitable.”

“Not inevitable,” he corrected, “predictable.”

She looked at him, bristling. “Jack manipulates him with guilt. ‘If you stop more people will die.’ And Will — he believes it. He always believes it.”

“That is the tragedy of empathy,” Hannibal said. “To feel every wound in the world as if it were your own.”

Holly let out a long breath. “I thought I was being paranoid. Overprotective. But if you see it too…”

“I do,” he said softly. “And you are right to worry. Will is deeply feeling; such men are vulnerable.”

She said nothing — the admission landed where she hadn’t meant for it to — and Hannibal watched her agree with a slow, almost tender interest.

They sat in companionable quiet. The room smelled of bergamot and the faint ghost of lavender.

“You care for him,” Hannibal observed, more statement than question.

“I do,” Holly said simply.

“Then perhaps we should ensure his well-being together,” he offered.

She blinked. “Together?”

“You have influence he listens to. I,” he said with a small graceful gesture, “have perspective Jack Crawford lacks. Combine our insights, and perhaps we grant Will the stability he needs.”

The proposition was honeyed, reasonable, and masked a hook.

Holly’s instinct bristled. Her mouth, however, chose a different tool. “You’re offering to play babysitter with a consulting fee and call it therapy.”

He smiled, unruffled. “I do not offer charity. I offer… collaboration.”

She hesitated only a beat, which was all the room had to balance on. “Fine. We’ll collaborate,” she said. Her voice was flat but practical. “On one condition: no metaphors about angels at the table. Will’s nightmares don’t need poetic encouragement.”

Hannibal’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Agreed. Angels are overdone.”

He rose, setting his cup down. “I’ll consider an approach and reach out. In the meantime, do remind Will that he has allies. Isolation breeds despair.”

“I will,” she promised, standing.

He walked her to the door, every movement impeccably civil. “Lady Black,” he said as she paused, “the macarons are exceptional. I shall enjoy them later.”

She smiled, polite and weary. “Just don’t dissect them first. And please, just call me Holly.”

He chuckled. “Of course, Holly.”

She left with the faintest sense of relief, like she’d accomplished something meaningful – like she’d made progress.

Inside, Hannibal closed the door and stood for a long moment in the quiet.

In the quiet, Hannibal returned to the dish. He lifted one macaron between his fingers. He lifted one macaron, the shell cracking under his bite. Honey and lavender met on his tongue.

Delicate. Precise. Thoughtful.

He savored the flavor, the faint smile returning.

Two pawns had edged closer to the center.

Exactly where he wanted them.