Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

SATURNINE ILLUMINATIONS

By CestPasDuBaudelaire

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Prologue

Horrible Person

"Everything was easy for her. Everything. It was falling right into her hand, and she needed to do nothing but smile. People just... loved her. By default. She would enter their life and, in a blink, she was all they would talk about. Even when they had been in my life for much longer. It was about her. At the time we still went to school together, she cultivated that image. Of the dreamy, kind girl that didn't need nor want many friends, only quality ones. Yet the whole school would have done everything to spend time with her. When I was alone, she would come to me and offer me her company as if I was some kind of begger. But even then, it wasn't her I wanted..."

"It was what she had."

"..."

          Poets had often associated night with silence.

          They had just as often been wrong.

          Few things were as noisy as nights, as the ears, spoiled with rest and indolence, had the luxury to become sensitive in their exploration of the world, taking umbrage at the slightest murmur of that great lady that was darkness.

          The hooting of the nocturnal birds, the wind rustling the leaves and knocking on the windows, the vague whispers of distant cars driving to distant places, the deafening absence of the diurnal sounds. And the loudness of one's thoughts. Just as many little devils chanting for their demons in the night.

"Then she left. For that school. And everyone was just so proud of her. Our parents, so blessed that someone as exceptional has been willing to be born from them. And I went to that regular school, with those regular children. The regular daughter."

"Unexceptional."

"And I lost my sister. I lost it to that world. She left, she found her place, her family. And, without a glance for me, she disappeared from this world. My world. And I remained there. Alone."

"And still unexceptional."

          Petunia Dursley was sitting in her kitchen, an empty glass of water in her hand. Or was it wine? She wasn’t sure.

          It was late. Or early. More likely, it was exactly between these two. Nightmares had driven her out of bed. They were more and more common for some reasons. Both nightmares and insomnia. Had been so since the beginning of the summer vacation. Petunia couldn't find any logical explanation for them, and she could do little but to withstand them, night after night.

          Hannibal Lecter was sitting in front of her, facing her, only half of his face and his two red eyes visible in the darkness. He had been there, in the kitchen, where her woken steps had led her. Looking like he was expecting her. Though he couldn't have been, of course. None but she knew of the nightmares that were plaguing her at night.

"You said she left you."

          It was easy to talk to him. Something about his face, his eyes... Or maybe his voice. Whatever it was, it was listening. And the words were flowing out of Petunia Dursley's mouth with the despair of those who had been locked up their entire life.

"Yes."

"But did she really?"

"She left for that world."

"Did she leave for that world, or did you banish her from this one? Did she leave, or did you forbid her to stay?"

"She couldn't be in both at once!"

"According to whom?"

          Or maybe poets had been right. Maybe there was something silent in the night.

          Words. They had no obstacle to send them back to the talkers.

          During the night, words had no echo. They were simply lost in the distance

"If she had been able to stay, don't you think she would have? With her big sister whose loneliness she couldn't bear the sight of, in the playground. Had she been able to come back to you, had she been as surrounded and supported as you say she was, don't you think she wouldn't have died alone? In pain and in fear?"

          The summer of 1996, Harry Potter witnessed something he would have never even pictured in his wildest dream.

          Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon deciding together that a wizard could be something other than utter scum. More precisely, that they could appreciate someone despite their great flaw of being a wizard.

          For Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon liked Hannibal Lecter.

          Their new guest was everything they wished their neighbors could see. Well-dressed, well-combed and well-behaved, Hannibal looked like money, high-education and proper upbringing. There was something regal about him and the Dursleys didn't mind at all if the Patels or the Mitchells were to notice the kind of people they were welcoming into their home.

          The first day, Hannibal had been rather silent and observant, as if trying to pick up on something, but once he had been given twenty-four hours, he had found his place in the family effortlessly. Becoming Aunt Petunia's gossip buddy, Uncle Vernon's views sharer, and Dudley's clever advisor. After less than a week, Hannibal had seemed to have always lived among the Dursleys, being more deeply rooted in this family than Harry was after fifteen years. He had understood on his own the sole true rule of this household: pretend, and he revealed himself to be exceptionally gifted for it. Not a word was uttered about witchcraft or Hogwarts, not a mention of a life outside of Surrey or a family other than the Dursleys. So much so that he had not only been accepted by the house, but also by the neighbourhood. The first week, he had made it a priority to meet every soul living around them, getting to know them and like them. All had been charmed by his warm smiles and his pristine politeness. It was now impossible for him to get out of the house without being greeted by half the neighbourhood, as if he had always been one of them.

          In few words, Hannibal was thriving.

          At least, that is what one could have thought.

          But Harry was slowly beginning to read Hannibal a little better and was now picking up on other tells than his smiles and wordy answers.

          They were both in Harry's room that night.

          Half of it had been arranged to accommodate the new sleeper.

          Harry's cupboard had been moved around, and split between two users, and the place left empty had been filled with a bed and a small bedside table. There was not enough room for two desks, therefore they had to share, even if Hannibal was using it more than Harry, who didn't mind writing and working from his bed or even on the floor. Ultimately, they didn't have much space, the two of them cramped together in the smallest bedroom of the house, but Hannibal's extreme tidiness, which had reorganized the whole space to be more efficient and pleasant to live in, was making it nearly more bearable than when Harry had been alone here.

          This night, Harry was on his bed, and Hannibal sitting at the desk, their eyes wide open despite the late hour.

          It was nothing unusual with them both. Harry had noticed that, if he was quick to go to sleep, and late to rise, Hannibal was well awake and active in the middle of the night. About that matter, he had said it was simply how he was organizing his night, and there was nothing worrying or even surprising about that. As for Harry’s wakefulness, it had nothing to do with sleep patterns, and everything to do with sleeplessness.

          For the few hours of sleep Harry was able to manage, he would find himself haunted by variations of the same nightmares, over and over.

          The Battle of the Atrium.

          With each time, new, darker outcomes. Worse.

          Some nights, Will and Hermione would not come to them in the middle of the final fight, their corpses resting, with Luna's and Ginny's, in the darkness of the Department of Mysteries.

          Some nights, Hannibal wouldn't wake up and remain forever cold and still in his boyfriend's waiting arms.

          Some nights, Sirius would join them only to die, Harry precipitating the exact loss he had tried to prevent.

          Most nights, Harry was the only one left standing.

          All nights would end up with him waking up to that very simple and crushing fact: if some of the losses were only a dream, one of them was a reality, and there was no waking up from Luna's demise.

          Therefore, it was easier to not sleep at all and, involuntarily, Harry had begun to develop a parody of Hannibal's rhythm, with waken nights and sleepy days.

          In that moment, however, he had found the perfect way to prevent sleep and, as a direct consequence, nightmares.

          Homework.

          Rarely had he been that dedicated and up-to-date with his schoolwork during vacations. The teachers hadn't given them as much as the other years, as they didn't know which students would continue or drop their subject at the beginning of the next term, but they had nonetheless made sure to give a bit of everything to do for their students.

          Harry was currently working on his Herbology essays. He had already taken care of the subjects he was certain he had done well for the OWLs, like Defense Against the Dark Arts or Charms, and he had disregarded those he knew for sure he had failed. His Potion textbook, or his Divination notes had not been looked up even once since the start of the break.

          Now, he was working on what he had a chance to maybe continue, and Herbology was on the top of that list. He didn't need it to become an Auror, but, once again, he had failed Potion and, with it, had buried his hopes to pursue that career. He therefore had to keep his options open and take as many NEWTs as he could.

"Hannibal?"

"Yes, Harry?" Hannibal asked without taking his eyes off the parchment he was blackening with his quill.

"What's the scientific name of Bloodroots? It's not in the book."

"It is, I assure you. The name you are looking for is Sanguinaria Canadensis, however."

"Thanks."

"You are welcome."

          Harry wrote down the name but, as he read the next question, all the words mixed up in his tired brain and he decided to put down his quill for now and stretch the muscles of his back, mistreated by his bad posture.

          From the corner of his eyes, he detailed Hannibal.

          His friend had changed in the month they had spent in Surrey. As if his body had waited to be on vacation to speed up its growth, Hannibal had gained a few more inches in a relatively short time. Harry knew that Hannibal had always been taller than him, but now he suspected he was even taller than Ron. Hannibal had the stature of the adult he would soon become. But that wasn't what was the most obvious, at least to Harry, who had daily been around him for ten months. The most noticeable change was how much weight Hannibal had lost since the beginning of the summer. He had always had a long silhouette with a thin waist, but July had brought an increase of those features. It was especially visible on his face which had no roundness left to it at all. His skin following the exact curves of his bones was revealing a harsh and marked face, with high cheekbones and hollow eyes.

          When Harry had mentioned it to Hannibal, he had not gotten much of an answer.

"Adulthood," Hannibal had simply stated. "It carves the face."

          But Harry knew it wasn't about that at all. It was true that Hannibal had lost the last of the natural fat of childhood, and surely enough, it seemed like he had now gotten most of his adult features, but there was more to it.

          Hannibal didn't eat. At all. Not that Harry could see at least. Certainly, he had to eat something, but it wasn't much. Assuredly not enough in any case.

          Harry had first thought it was because of the food itself. Hannibal was very picky with his meals. He had said so himself to Harry once. And he had illustrated it during the last winter break, where he would not touch any food that had not been prepared by him.

          Here, it was a worse alternative of the same idea, with the difference that he wasn't cooking his own food anymore. If Harry had first believed that it was so as to not impede his growing relationship with the Dursleys, he now thought better of it.

          Harry's eyes left Hannibal to fall on his friend's bedside table. Apart from a lamp, the furniture was only bearing the weight of one object. A long wooden box, which always seemed to glow with a strange halo, result of the many spells working to its constant protection. Inside it, Harry knew that every letter Will Graham had written to his boyfriend was being safely kept. Hannibal couldn't write back, as Will was hidden away, but he had kept the letter religiously, organizing them per theme, and though he had never read even one of them a second time, his eyes would always linger on the box, as if he could contemplate them through the wood.

          It was those lingering looks which told Harry the truth. Hannibal was not changing because he was growing. He was changing because he was decaying. It wasn't easy to tell because his smiles were quick, and his wit was easy. Both of them equally charming. But, for Harry who had known him from Hogwarts, he could tell that his silences weighed more than they usually did, that his breathing was deeper than it normally was. It wasn't something easy to pinpoint. It was like when one was looking at two images only featuring variations so small that they could say there was something different without being able to name any of them.

          And there were more telling signs, though just as subtle. When Hannibal was alone and Harry would catch a glimpse of him through a half-open door or a hazardous path crossing. When he was alone, though the smile wouldn't waver, gone was the charm. Instead, there was something else on his turned-harsh features.

          Anger.

          A coldly burning bitterness steaming and bubbling behind his eyes.

          Hannibal was battling with resentment. That was that, and not adulthood, that was carving his face. As if it was now easier for him to stand still and contemplate the depths of his grievance than it was to merely eat.

"How is Will?" Harry dared to ask after a time had passed. "You received a letter today, didn't you?"

"He is as well as yesterday. As well as tomorrow," was Hannibal’s laconic answer.

          Harry remembered how he had felt, the last few days at Hogwarts, after the Battle of the Atrium. Craving for loneliness in the midst of the crowd, and for company in the heart of solitude. Hannibal seemed in a similar mindset. Not wanting to mention Will, yet suffering from keeping him silent. Knowing full well that no path was a good one, Harry continued.

"It sucks here. Trust me, I know how it feels. I'm stuck here every summer."

          Slowly, Hannibal looked away from his parchment and his slow cold eyes found Harry's. His face didn't change, but his eyes displayed the extent of the displeasure this comment had brought, and Harry cursed himself mentally.

"You do not know how it feels," Hannibal simply stated before turning back to his work.

"Yeah... I know... But... I guess what I wanted to say is that..."

"I heard what you said, Harry," he cut as he continued to blacken the paper in front of him. "And your empathy for me is moving. But I already have someone who understands me, you don't have to take on the role."

"Yeah, I'm sure Will feels just as bad as you."

"Oh, I assure you he doesn't."

          For a second, Harry thought that Hannibal was only looking for comfort and being told otherwise. Knowing his friend however, he should have known better.

"Don't say that! I'm sure he does."

"I do not doubt Will's feelings for me. But he has always been good at separation. Better than me at least."

          Harry wasn't sure it was true. Hannibal had always struck him as someone independent and outgoing, when Will, though Harry had been able to witness from the front row that there was more to him than what met the eyes, was still the exact opposite of that, hiding in his boyfriend's shadow to avoid any interaction.

          Hannibal must have sensed Harry's silent doubts, for he addressed them on his own.

"I know you don't believe it. But it is simply because you know me more accurately than you know Will."

"You're... talking about what happened in the Department of Ministry?"

          Harry felt his heart speed up. Both from the fear that the mere name could rise in his gut, but also from apprehension.

          A month after the events, he still had no idea what had happened with Will. He had seen from him two displays of sheer power, both of them still haunting most of his dreams, and no explanation had been given. Dumbledore may have said some words about blood magic, but even he had seemed at a loss, and Harry couldn't make sense of anything he had seen.

"I am not," Hannibal answered.

          But Harry ached for answers, and he couldn't be more certain that, if someone had them, it was Hannibal.

"I know you weren't there but... When we were in the Department of Mysteries, something happened, Hannibal. With Will. Do you know what it was?"

"It was Will. Empathetic."

"No, it was... It was black and powerful. Like some kind of... pet storm or whatever. It deflected all the attacks coming our way. And it was talking... with Will's voice. As if Will was the storm. But then it stopped, and Will was just fine. But he did it again. To allow us to run. Is it... Is it some kind of spell, or... What is it?"

"It was not a spell. It was unaltered magic. Will's."

"How do we do that?"

"We do not. When we use magic, we alter it. We shape and tint it. Will may well be the only person alive that can conjure and tame the kind of magic you saw that day."

"Why? How does he do it, then?"

"Only Will knows. But even if he were to tell you, you couldn't replicate his process. It requires a whole new sense that we do not possess. To him, we are blind men asking him how to tell colours. His nature is outside of our reach."

"Even you, you don't know how he does it?"

"I know. I don't understand, but I know. I humbly told him a bit about it."

"You knew he could do that. That's why you weren't worried about him not having his wand."

"Will has many resources, and it gives me just as many reasons not to worry. The world will meet its end before Will is defeated by anyone but himself."

"That... storm. That's what happened at Ilvermorny?"

"No."

          The 'no' was definitive, and Harry knew at once that nothing more would be said on the matter.

          He wasn't sure he was really understanding what Hannibal was telling him, but it was more than he had gotten in a month, and he knew respecting Hannibal boundaries was cleverer than forcing his way. The Battle of the Atrium had taught him that.

          Harry sighed at length, and reopened his Herbology textbook, trying to focus on his homework again. He had no desire to write about bubotubers or whatever the sixth question was about, but the alternative was sleep, therefore he tried his best.

          However, he couldn't prevent his mind from wandering off to lands far away from his schoolwork, no more than he could prevent his eyes from falling back on his temporary roommate.

"What are you working on?" he asked, as Hannibal was starting yet another page from the top. "It's not Herbology, is it?"

"No, I am working on an article."

"An article? Like for a newspaper?"

"For a magazine."

"Really?"

          Interested and eager to know more, Harry let his poor, unloved textbook fall on his mattress and he got off his bed to walk to the desk. There, he looked over Hannibal's shoulder to try to guess what the article was about.

"What kind of magazine?"

"The Erudite."

"I think I've seen this one before. It's an English magazine?"

"You can find a version of it in every European and North American country. It is rather popular. It deals with vulgarisation and its goal is to make magical theory and progress a popular matter."

"Awesome! And you're gonna send something to them and see if it can get published?"

"They contacted me, actually."

"Why for?"

"While most of you were working on your OWLs and the teachers had nearly stopped giving class, I wrote an article for Saint Thaddeus' Journals. The Erudite was interested in publishing it too, therefore I have to rewrite a more... approachable version."

"What's the topic?"

"A few months ago, I extrapolated a new alchemical theory that can heal recently occurred disabling injuries. Experimented it. Worked wonderfully. I wrote about it and the Mediwizarding community was willing to hear more."

"That's awesome," Harry repeated.

          He felt dumb. Not only because he couldn't find anything better to say than that single and generic word, but also because it was an impossible ordeal to feel clever when standing next to Hannibal.

          Harry sat down on his bed, detailing his friend's straight back.

"You're really gonna go places, right..."

          Hannibal frowned, not understanding the remark, and he stopped his writing to observe Harry.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You're my age, and you're already successful at a job you don't even have yet."

          Sensing where those remarks were going from, Hannibal went back to his parchment.

"Though it should not become a dogma, it is often the best strategy to plan for one's future ahead of time. You should too, Harry."

"My future's Voldemort. I don't really have time to build up a resume."

"Voldemort is not eternal, Harry. Neither are you."

"Yeah, maybe. Still. It's hard to see past that."

"I can understand. Do not worry. You will always have time, until the very moment when you won't."

"I... Are you sure what you just said was not meant to worry me?"

          Hannibal put down his quill and smiled.

"I assure you. It wasn't meant to worry you."

          With that said, Hannibal, after gathering his stuff to leave behind him a clean desk, got up from the chair and began to walk to the door.

"Where're you going?"

"To the kitchen."

"You gonna eat something?"

"No. I am simply going to honour an appointment with introspection. Do you need me to fetch anything for you along the way?"

"Uh... A glass of water would be nice, thanks."

"I was invited to her wedding. She invited me."

"Did you go?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Well. Vernon was starting his new job and I was already expecting Dudley, and..."

"Why didn't you go, Petunia?"

          Petunia always forgot he was a boy.

          It was the first thing she would forget about him when they would sit down, face to face, in the kitchen.

          The first one she would forget about herself was that she had any worth at all.

"Because I didn't want my Vernon to see just how much of a freak they all were."

"Yet you had told him before. He knew the truth. And had promised you he would never blame you for your sister. You told me so two weeks ago."

          He remembered. He always remembered. Petunia couldn't trick his inquisitive brain. His inescapable brain.

          He remembered and she forgot.

"Yes, but I didn't want to drag him into it. He deserves better than having to smile for that filth."

"Why didn't you go without him?"

"With Dudley and..."

"Petunia."

          He never raised his voice. Maybe because it was the middle of the night. And because they were a secret. Were they? Petunia didn't remember anything being said in that sense, but still, it felt like a secret.

          In any case, he never raised his voice. But he could lower it. And deepen it. Which was worse.

"Why didn't you go on your own?" he asked.

"Because I didn't want them to believe I didn't already have what they were getting!"

          His face was hard to read in the darkness of the kitchen. But she could always spot his smiles.

"You got married before her."

"Yes."

"Which makes you better than her."

"I was loved before her. I was wanted before her."

"By Vernon only. By no one else."

          A silence settled in the kitchen. Only in the kitchen, however. For the last sentence continued to echo in Petunia's head, despite her best effort to quieten it. She knew she was powerless against those echoes. She wasn't at their source. Those red eyes in front of her were. Somehow.

          Or maybe she was wrong. Maybe it was all coming from her. She wasn't sure anymore. Two weeks ago, it had been much clearer in her mind. But now... Everything was moving under muddy waters.

"How did you feel when you learned about your little sister's death?"

          Petunia ripped her eyes off the boy's shining ones. Somehow, she felt like it was a physical effort that consumed her last strength, leaving her with a short breath and an aching body. But she didn't feel any better. She could still sense their reversed shadow burning her retinas.

"How did that make you feel?" he asked again.

          Suddenly, another thought was brought to the front of Petunia's mind, without her truly understanding why. As if it was somehow linked, when she could easily tell it wasn't.

"I have been having nightmares lately. Many."

"I know. How did your sister's death make you feel?"

          But all Petunia could think of was those nightmares. As if it was what the conversation was about, ultimately.

"I don't usually have nightmares. It is very strange, when I think about it."

"Your sister, Petunia. Her death. What were your thoughts?"

          There was something about those nightmares. Something important. That she needed to get out. She wanted to talk about them, tell someone. Anyone. Nothing was more urgent than that. It was a matter of... survival?

"In the nightmares, I am always..."

"I know about your nightmares."

          His voice had whipped the silence. It had threatened its fabric with a harsh slap that Petunia felt on her cheek.

"I am not interested in hearing about them. Tell me about the death of your sister."

          His voice had settled, but Petunia could still feel its burn on her cheek. She was frustrating him. It was a bad idea.

"What were your thoughts when you learned about it?" he asked again.

"I thought that there was nothing left of her to be jealous of."

"And...?"

"And I hated myself for it."

"Because thinking that makes you a horrible person."

"Yes."

“I beg your pardon."

"That makes me a horrible person."

"Good."

          Gone was the frustration, back was his amusement.

"And a guilty one," he added.

"I didn't d..."

"But you enjoyed."

"I was sad and ..."

"But you were relieved. In the end, Petunia, it is all everyone will care to remember. How much of a horrible person you are for feeling relief."

          Harry had spent the morning in the garden, making the best of the cooler hours of the day to remain out of the house and breathe some fresh air.

          Last summer, he had barely been in the yard at all, taking long walks around the neighbourhood and, more often than not, out of it. But this summer, he was more careful. He now knew that getting away from the house was dangerous and though he didn't mind himself, he had no idea what would become of Hannibal if anything were to happen to him. Would the protection Will had created from his blood remain without Harry around to be its source? And if not, would Hannibal simply be more vulnerable? Or would his second chance at life be taken back and he would drop as dead as he had been after the Battle of the Atrium.

          Harry didn't dare to ask those questions for he was too afraid of the answers but, in any case, he was now living as if Hannibal's life depended on his caution. As if everyone’s life depended on his caution.

          He had already been the sole culprit for one of his friends' death. He now knew the great cost of his mistakes. And he had sworn himself he wouldn't let anyone else pay for them.

          That was the reason why, no matter how unbreathable life was here, he would not set foot outside the Dursleys' garden. But that didn't mean he was not doing his best to avoid his family.

          Yet it was now lunch time, and, after a morning of relative peace, Harry knew he had to go back to his Uncle, his Aunt and his Cousin.

          When he arrived in the kitchen, Vernon and Dudley were already sitting at the table, and Hannibal was setting it with his usual level of precision.

          Harry fetched the lacking forks in the kitchen but let his friend place them, as he knew his work wouldn't pass Hannibal's meticulous screening.

"Oh, for about fifty thousand pounds," Uncle Vernon said, continuing the conversation Harry had not witnessed the start of. "And fifty more to come before the end of the summer."

"I presume Defor's Drills must not be so thrilled about it," Hannibal stated, putting the last fork down. “Thank you, Harry.”

"Ha! I hope so!” Vernon exclaimed. “Took the client right under their nose! You were right!"

"About?"

"Offering the deal at a hundred thousand pounds. He jumped right on it."

"Defor was being greedy."

"And still, I got the deal for more than what we normally ask for! But just because it was less than them..."

"Serves you well. Both of you. You for your bottom line, them for the lesson they will get from it."

"You're certain you don't fancy yourself working in drills, once you're done with all that... once you're done with your studies."

"I am quite certain. But thank you for the offer, Vernon."

          Hannibal sat down at his usual place, by Harry's side.

"You're giving out business advice, now?" Harry asked.

"How about you stay out of matters that don't concern you," Uncle Vernon barked before Hannibal could even answer.

          The liking the Dursleys' family had taken for Hannibal had certainly not been extended to Harry.

"They concern Hannibal? Weird. I didn't know drills were part of Hogwarts' curriculum. Must have not been very attentive in class..."

"Don't. Say. That. Name," Vernon choked. "Not under this roof!"

          Harry didn't answer but he didn't apologize either. He was past fearing the Dursleys. He had grown out of it.

          Before his lack of answer could become an awkward silence, Petunia entered the living room, carrying a plate in her hands.

"What's that?" Dudley asked right away, bored with his father's conversation.

"I made some Sunday Roast. You like that, right Diddykins?"

"It's fine..." he simply shrugged.

          She brought the plate to her son and served him first, before continuing with Uncle Vernon, Hannibal, herself, and only then Harry, giving him the smallest piece that, he believed, she had let burn on purpose. He didn’t mind. He knew Hannibal would give him his part before the end of the meal. That, he minded more than a burnt piece of meat... Once she was done, Petunia went back to the kitchen to fetch a small white bowl filled with sauce and came back to them with it.

"Those Defor's managers...," Hannibal breathed, contemplative.

"Yes?"

"Horrible, horrible persons."

"I abs..."

          But before Uncle Vernon could even voice his agreement, he was interrupted by a resonating fracas.

          The white bowl had slipped from the hands holding it and had crashed on the floor, in a cascade of broken pieces of ceramics.

          Petunia, her hands still stretched in front of her, her eyes and mouth opened wide, was looking in front of her with horror, the bowl forgotten at her feet.

          At first, Harry thought she had witnessed something terrifying behind them and he turned around to see what it could be but noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

"Boy!" Uncle Vernon barked at him as if he was shouting at the culprit of the incident. "Clean up that mess! Now!"

          Used to reacting quickly, Harry stood up at once and knelt by the broken bowl, carefully picking up the biggest pieces.

"Petunia, go clean your hands, darling, you're going to burn yourself."

          Vernon didn't have the same compassion for Harry, as the sauce covering the pieces of ceramic was smoking and burning the tips of Harry's fingers.

          He tried to blow on them, but that only spread the sauce even more, and Harry gave up. Carefully picking up the few pieces he had already safely gathered, he stood up and walked to the kitchen to fetch something to mop up the disaster.

          In the adjacent room, he found Petunia, her hands under the water. He passed by her, to take the towel hanging from the extractor hood.

"Can I take this one?"

          It seemed old and unloved, but he didn't want to make any mistakes that could tense up the situation even more. However, he got no answer from his aunt. When he turned around, he noticed Petunia wasn't even looking at what he was holding out for her.

"Aunt Petunia?"

          Her hands were perfectly still under the strong water of the tap, her eyes were on the brown sauce staining the bottom of the sink. She didn't seem to hear him at all.

          Harry stepped forward and put his hand on her elbow to catch her attention.

"Aunt Petunia?"

          He half expected her to jump out of her skin, taken by surprise by his presence, but she did not. She slowly turned around, and her eyes met his.

          For a long second, an awkward one, they looked at each other in silence, as if they were meeting for the first time. Then she whispered.

"You have so much of her..."

"I have what?"

"May I help you, Petunia?"

          Hannibal had appeared in the doorframe, in his hand, wrapped in his napkin, the last few pieces Harry hadn't picked up.

          Maybe it was something in his voice, but he ended up being more efficient than Harry at bringing Petunia back to herself. She smiled at once, the distance in her eyes gone.

"No, not at all" she said, walking to him, "give me that, and be careful not to cut yourself."

          Then she turned to Harry, with the usual frown she had every time he would enter her sight.

"What are you waiting for? The sauce will ruin the floor."

          She then passed by them with her quick short steps and left the kitchen. Harry and Hannibal both stayed behind in silence.

"That was strange..." Harry finally said.

"What was?"

"Her. She was all weird before you arrived. Like... she was somewhere else."

"Strange indeed. Must have been lost in some thoughts."

"Yeah, probably."

"Fetch more towels!" Petunia's voice snapped from the dining room.

          And Harry decided that, all things considered, he did not care enough.

"There was this boy, at school. His name was Fernand. He was in the running team and was too much above school to care about bad grades and bad behaviours."

"He was liked."

"Adored. He had repeated a year, thus he looked a bit older, and seemed a bit more mature than the other boys."

"When was it?"

"When I was in primary school. Long before I met Vernon. He was a bit of a bully, but I didn't mind. He was confident so I didn't care to see past that."

"Were you liked, in primary school?"

          Petunia laughed. At least, she heard her laugh. Yet she didn't feel it passing her throat and vibrating in her mouth. She didn't feel anything anymore. Experiencing the world from the inside of her skull, unable to sense her own self through the thickness of her bones.

"No, I wasn't. But, Fernand... He noticed me. Our teacher paired us for a project for class, and I got us a good grade. Certainly, he saw an opportunity there. But I didn't care. He would talk to me in class. Him. He wouldn’t be nice. He would ask me to do his homework for him, and take the blame for his bad behaviour. But he would be present. He would spend time with unliked, unpopular me. And everyone could see that. Him, with me. She saw that too... She confronted him. She was half his size, but she could give an earful when she wanted to. She told him that she wouldn't let him be mean to me. It was a ridiculous scene. She was standing in the middle of the playground, not even tall enough to look him in the eye, her arm crossed with all her usual entitled rightfulness. And he scoffed, or course he did. But no one could scoff at her for too long. And he grew distant quickly after that."

"He was a bully, you said. Mean to you and looking for the good grades you could earn him."

"Him to a t."

"She saw that, and stood up for you."

"That was the thing with her. She had a certain idea about the world, and never thought twice about the fact that not everything was about her feelings and her opinions. She saw something she didn't like, she destroyed it. She didn't consider that maybe..."

"Maybe you wanted it..."

"I didn't care about the added work. I didn't care I was a means to an end."

"You cared that you were liked. And useful. To someone like him."

"And she destroyed that."

"And you were left unloved, and useless all over again."

          His voice didn't have much tonality anymore. Most of the inflections were gone, and she couldn't tell His frustration apart from His amusement. Which didn't worry her. What truly worried her was that now, it was nearly impossible for her to tell for certain when that voice was His or hers.

          That only could still stir up a fear painful enough to be felt through the bones of her skull.

"You had a solitary childhood. Isolated in the playground, disregarded in the house. In some ways, you are closer to Harry than you are to your own son."

"No, it's not true. I have nothing to do with him."

"Don't you, now? Yet you made sure to create for him the childhood you felt his mother was the cause of. An isolated and disregarded childhood. His solitude echoes yours. His secondary position by Dudley's side answers yours to your sister."

"You want me to feel sorry for that... that boy?"

"Why would you? You wished nothing but your sister's death. Your behaviour toward her son, it is simply telling of the kind of person you are. Why would you feel sorry about your nature? Except, of course, if your nature is wicked."

          The light in the room was so weak, so shy, it looked as black as night itself. Not daring to enlighten His skin. And Petunia couldn't tell it apart from the shadows dressing Him. The only thing she could see, the only thing telling her she wasn't alone in that darkness, was the two red eyes burning brightly.

"Do you know where the word ‘wicked’ comes from?" he asked.

          She didn't answer.

"From wicca. An old English word to say witch. How very ironic..."

"I am not a witch," Petunia whispered, afraid of her own voice.

          Afraid that her word, coming out of her mouth, would somehow borrow His voice.

"Yet, you are wicked."

"I am not..."

"How then do you explain the suffering spreading around you, like a purulent wound on once healthy skin. Crowned in necrosis. Your sister. Who stood up for you. Who sat in solitude with you. Dead for your greatest pleasure. Her son, entrusted to you, dependent on you, miserable, suffering a hundredfold the ills you chose for yourself as a child. Maybe your parents were right. Maybe when they chose your sister over you, they saw something in you. Something wicked. So much so that even your witch of a sister appeared less rotten in comparison, when standing by your side."

          The shadows were still dancing around her, indolent friends. A breath, mimicking the wind, blowing on Petunia's brain. But there was no one with her. There hadn’t been anyone. Ever.

          The two red eyes were but reflections of the outside streetlights.

          Petunia had always been alone with her thoughts. And it was her thoughts that continued to resonate with a whistling noise between the walls of that kitchen.

"Purulent wounds, they spread, and spread their death and their misery around them. To their husbands. To their sons. Ever growing web of necrosis. Until their unworthy selves are cut off completely."

          The knocks on Harry's door were soft and gentle, making it impossible to refuse them anything.

"Yes?" Harry called from his bed, where he had been lying down for a while now.

"May I come in?"

          It was Hannibal's voice that resonated from the other side of the door panel.

"Of course," Harry said.

          The door opened and Hannibal popped his head in the room.

"You know it's your place too. You don't have to ask for permission."

"It is the polite thing to do," Hannibal simply explained. "I wouldn't want to interrupt anything intimate."

"I was just lost in my thoughts."

"I see... Though it is intimate, I believe it could use an interruption, then."

          Yet, Hannibal didn't enter, and stayed by the entrance of the room.

"Uh, you're not going in?" Harry asked.

"I am heading the other way, actually. I will take a walk outside, care to accompany me?"

          Harry sat up on his bed.

          The thought of it was more than pleasant. Last summer, he had spent most of his days outside, walking further and further away from the house, as if that could create some distance between him and his thoughts. And it had.

          But now, with what he knew about both the dangers and the protections around them, he wasn't sure it was such a good idea.

"Don't you think it's a bit... reckless?"

"Reckless? How so?"

"With Voldemort and... You know. Dumbledore kinda let us know that the house is the only place where we should be."

          Hannibal smiled and put a hand on his chest.

"Harry, there is no path that shouldn't be walked, when you have a great wizard and a good friend by your side. I would be humbled to be that company for you, if only you accept to be mine too."

"I'm not sure you're getting the better end of the deal."

"That is the appanage of good trades. All sides believe they have the better end."

          Harry shrugged. Maybe it would have been wiser to refuse, but the idea was simply too seducing. He wanted so badly to get out of the house, and he didn't have it in him to fight the lure.

          He quickly put his shoes on and jumped to his feet before following Hannibal in the corridor.

"Where are we going?"

"Where our feet and thoughts bring us."

          Their feet and thoughts made their first stop at the end of the corridor, however, when Hannibal knocked on the door of Dudley's room.

"Yeah?" A voice answered, muffled by the closed door.

"May I open?"

"Sure."

          Hannibal slightly opened the door, just enough to get a glimpse of the messy, crowded room, full of broken objects and forgotten gifts.

"Heading outside," Hannibal said without a glance at the littered floor. "You want to come along?"

          If Harry had known Dudley would be coming, he would have thought twice about it.

          Hannibal had quickly become close to the whole family. Dudley included. Much to Harry's surprise.

          Hannibal was one to mind politeness and good manners. And Dudley, in that aspect, was his exact opposite. And so were Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, to be honest. Yet, Hannibal was getting along with all of them, as if he had decided to momentarily take a break off his moral principles, for the sake of his cohabitation with the Dursleys'.

"Yeah, 'm comin'."

          Harry was not surprised by the quick response. Dudley had been rather distant with Hannibal at first, suspicious of that boy whom his parents were cordial and then friendly to. But then he had warmed up, when he had realized that the said boy could be a wonderful company.

          Harry had thought he was hallucinating, the first time he had seen Hannibal among Dudley's gang, along with Piers, Dennis, Gordon and Malcom. They were all big and stupid, and even thought Hannibal was as tall as them, more than odd, he seemed otherworldly with his mannered posture, among those boys with their broad shoulders and muscular chests.

          And that impression was before any of them would open their mouths. Because, at the second they would, it would become a pure comical spectacle. Hannibal, with his precise vocabulary and his outdated expressions, surrounded by these boys unable to utter words longer than two syllables, and who barely stepped above groans to make themselves be understood.

          Yet, the gang seemed to genuinely like Hannibal, for a reason that eluded Harry.

          Maybe it was because Hannibal was respected by most, or maybe because he was listening to them as if what they were saying was worthy of the interest of someone as educated as him.

          In any case, watching the patience and the benevolence he was displaying when with the boys, Harry could see why his friend had been sorted in Hufflepuff. It was nearly charitable, at that point.

          Dudley had quickly adopted him in his gang. As soon as he had understood that Hannibal had no desire to take his place and was happy standing a step behind, he had seen the potential of having someone like him among his allies and he now acted with a respect and an enthusiasm he had never even thought of showing for Harry.

          Therefore, the fact that he accepted easily enough, or the fact that Hannibal had offered him to come in the first place shouldn't have come as a surprise for Harry.

          Yet, when Dudley stepped out of his room, with the brand-new shoes his mother had gotten him for his birthday, a few days ago, he stopped in the middle of his track, his eyes detailing Harry.

          Hannibal had not spelled out Harry's presence and certainly, just like his cousin, Dudley had believed it would be only him and Hannibal.

          Now, he was hesitating. The positive perspective of being seen with Hannibal being compared to the negative one of being seen with Harry.

          However, Hannibal didn't seem to acknowledge his internal hesitation, and he simply kept moving. Nearly instinctively, the two other boys followed, though they still weren't sure they truly wanted to be there anymore.

          By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, Dudley seemed to have made up his mind and he stopped by the entrance hall.

"I'm just gonna tell mum that..."

"Aren't we old enough to come and go as we please?" Hannibal asked, heading to the door without slowing down. "Let her be, the outside world is calling us."

          Dudley followed easily enough, and Harry closed the door behind them.

"Where are we going?" Dudley asked as Harry had a minute ago.

"Where do you want to go, Dudley?" Hannibal answered.

          Dudley first shrugged then pointed toward his left and their small group began to walk up Privet Drive.

"You have a plan?" Harry asked.

"Enjoying the sun and the leisure," Hannibal answered. "I know you could use them, Harry."

"Why?" Dudley wondered.

"Why what?"

"Why you said he could use them?"

"Haven't you noticed that your cousin has had a hard time since the beginning of the summer. Sleep deprivation is a struggle, but nothing compared to peace deprivation. A walk outside would do us all a world of good."

          From the corner of his eyes, Dudley observed Harry, as if trying to see on his cousin's face the trace of Hannibal's words.

"Why you're struggling?" he finally asked Harry after a long minute of observation.

"You care?" Harry scoffed.

          Dudley simply shrugged and they continued in silence for about a minute.

"But why are you struggling, though?" he asked again with a frown.

          Either because he was annoyed that he didn't have the answer he had asked for, or because he had made the mistake of trying to make his atrophied brain work on its own and was now suffering from the consequences of his recklessness: curiosity.

"You wouldn't understand."

"I ain't stupid!" he exclaimed with a stupid expression.

"Guess we learn something new every day."

          Unsure if what Harry had said was mean or not, Dudley decided to turn to Hannibal.

"Why is he struggling?"

"We have had a rough year."

"Is it cause of Cedric?" Dudley asked from nowhere.

          Harry first frowned, and then remembered Dudley, overhearing Harry's nightmares, had mentioned it before, last summer.

"No," Harry cut him harshly.

"Someone else died," Hannibal explained with a kinder voice. "A witch named Luna."

          At the word 'witch', Dudley's face spasmed with repressed fear and disgust.

"I always forget you're... you're a... one of them."

"I know."

          Harry suspected Hannibal was working hard on having everyone forget it.

"I don't like 'em," Dudley added.

"Who?"

"Witches."

"Why?"

"Cause they are mean to me."

"They are?"

          This time, Hannibal seemed genuinely surprised.

"Yeah. Once, when I was twelve, one of them cursed me with a pig's tail."

"A p... Why would they do that?"

"Because I was eating cake," Dudley said with his slow, sullen voice.

          Hannibal detailed him for a second, then Harry, before letting his eyes lose themselves in the distance.

"I find it to be unspeakably rude and lowly mean-spirited."

"Hagrid did it," Harry said defensively.

"Even ruder and lower. An adult wizard cursing a muggle child. For the only sake of mockery. I know Hagrid is your friend, Harry, but I will certainly not applaud him for that."

"You'd rather applaud Dudley for being a dimwit bully for years?"

"I'm not a dimwit!" Dudley argued right away, not arguing against the ‘bully’ part however.

"You're right," Harry nodded. "It's not 'dim' when there's nothing at all."

"My friends," Hannibal interrupted them, "let's be civil, I am begging you. You would prove the other wrong by taking the higher road."

"Yeah," Harry shrugged, "cause you're one for higher roads, right? Pushing people off the stairs is so below you."

          Hannibal chuckled lightly at the mention of that memory they shared.

"What?" Dudley reacted, unaware of what they were referencing to. "What you're on about?"

"Mr Higher Road has a bit of a temperament issue," Harry unapologetically informed his cousin. "Spent the last year getting into fights cause his ego was a bit bruised."

          Dudley smiled widely.

"Good! You shouldn't let anyone talk shit about you!"

"It is all a matter of the past," Hannibal stated. "I have mended my ways. I decided that it would serve me well to try to become a... better human being, so to say."

          There was a few seconds of silence before Dudley found his words.

"You're already a great guy."

"Thank you, Dudley. It warms my heart to hear it."

          Dudley mumbled and shrugged. He wasn't one to hear about heart without laughing it off, yet he didn't seem willing to laugh Hannibal off.

"It's serious, though?" Harry asked. "You're really gonna try to change?"

"I have begun to adopt a more traditional behaviour before the end of the last year. And I have been doing quite well, if I may say so myself. No more detention for me, I have a better life to build than one of school expellings."

"Great! Dumbledore's gonna be thrilled."

"I hope so. He inspired me a lot."

"You're really gonna help him with..."

          Harry stopped in the middle of his sentence and looked at Dudley. He would have largely preferred to be alone with Hannibal for this walk.

"... With Voldemort?" Hannibal however finished, unhesitatingly. "I promised as much."

"What's that?" Dudley asked at once.

"The dark wizard who killed Harry's parents and who is now actively after him."

          Dudley looked at Hannibal, dumbfounded, then at Harry as if to try to see the beginning of a lie. Or an explanation.

"That guy, he... he's trying to kill Harry?"

          Dudley, much like his parents, had never been curious about the wizarding world. He had been too afraid of it since the very first day, and only his recent friendship with Hannibal was giving him the bravery to ask questions about it.

"Actively," Hannibal simply repeated.

"And what are you gonna do?" Dudley asked Harry.

"Try not to get killed," Harry shrugged.

          Dudley nodded, as if it was the soundest plan he had ever heard.

"You're gonna go after that guy too?" he asked Hannibal.

"We will see. Probably, but not certainly."

"Why is he after you?" Dudley asked Harry.

"I don't know. It's not very clear. I hope I'll be told more about it this year."

"That would be fair," Hannibal acknowledged.

          For a while, they walked in silence. Nearly against his will, Harry found himself counting each step taking him away from home, deeper into danger. He had spent every summer in this neighbourhood, yet today, it felt foreign, as if clothed in new, darker and unsettling attires.

"Maybe we should get back home," he finally said in the silence. "We've been far enough."

"What?" Dudley laughed. "Afraid to get lost?"

"No. Just already sick of your company."

"No one asked you to come!"

"Actually..."

"Misters, please."

          Hannibal took his watch out of his pocket and looked at it.

"Let's take another ten minutes. Then, if you are still as worried, Harry, we can go home."

"We're waiting for something?" Harry asked.

"No, we are not."

          They resumed their walk in silence. Harry couldn't help his tensed eyes from traveling from right to left, lingering on every corner and every alley. He had taken his wand with him. More exactly, he had not taken it out of his pocket since the beginning of the summer. He knew he was not allowed to do magic outside of school, but there was a huge difference between what he could do, and what he had to do. A difference as heavy as the weight of reality.

"What bored young men to do, in this county?" Hannibal asked.

          His hands behind his back, and his eyes right into the sun, it wasn't certain to whom he had asked the question, and Dudley took it upon himself to give it an answer, not dissimilar to the one Harry would have gone for.

"Not much."

"Thankfully, this is not an end," Hannibal sighed.

"You have an idea?" Dudley asked.

"Not really. I am mostly talking about the general situation."

          Harry and Dudley, having nothing better to do than listen, as stated a second ago, turned to their friend, without stopping their walk.

"Adulthood is upon us," Hannibal simply said, "and with it, our life, and the direction we will be willing to give it. My life will certainly not be in Surrey."

"We have two years left at Hogwarts. Maybe for one last summer, you'll be here."

"I highly doubt that."

          Hannibal turned to Dudley, squinting under the summer light even though he hadn't when he had directly fixed the sun.

"What will you do once you turn eighteen and graduate from high school?"

"Dunno. Continue boxing. I'm Smeltings' champion. They say I could go pro..."

"Do they?" Hannibal showed polite enthusiasm. "I think it is a perspective that could fit you well."

          Dudley shrugged. He had never worried about the future. He knew all too well he didn't need to build anything for himself, as his parents would answer his every need until their death.

"What about you, Harry?"

"I want to go live with Sirius."

          His answer had spurted out of his mouth right away. He had thought about it for years now, but especially this summer, as his sixteenth, and with it his seventeenth birthday were coming closer and closer.

"We talked to each other during this month. We're already planning things."

          Sirius' letters were always strange. Harry knew he faked his enthusiasm so as to not worry his godson. Harry had no trouble picturing him, gloomy, miserable, walking the empty and dusty corridors of that house he hated so fiercely. His face carved and osseous, not without echoing Hannibal's current one. Though Hannibal's smiles were more convincing that Sirius' exclamation marks and cheeky remarks.

          The only time when his joy and enthusiasm seemed sincere was when they were talking about living together for a while, taking him to the word he had given Harry more than two years ago.

          And Harry was aching for it too, even more so since the Department of Mystery. He had fully realized how precious and fragile that dream was. And how easily it could be taken from him.

"To the Black Manor?" Hannibal asked.

"Here or elsewhere. It will depend on if he is cleared or not. It would be better if he could leave that cursed house."

"Certainly."

"You’re talking... about that man?" Dudley asked. "Your... uh..."

"My godfather, yes. Who also happens to be a very dangerous criminal."

          Dudley blanched at once.

"You're gonna live with him...?"

"He is innocent of the crime he is accused of," Hannibal stated.

          Dudley looked at him, then at Harry, biting his lip without understanding, before relying on Hannibal for the truth.

"He said he would come for us if we weren't nice to him."

          From this sentence full of vague pronouns, Hannibal understood at once the little tool Harry had made out of his godfather's name, in order to keep the Dursleys at arm’s length. It was that threat that had allowed him to go to the Quidditch World Cup and, no matter how it had ended, Harry regretted nothing.

          Hannibal detailed him, and Harry could feel the weight of his judgement, though he wasn't sure if it was disappointed or simply amused.

"We should go back," Hannibal finally stated. "We are nearly out of Little Whining, and though I am not worried, I could use less of Professor Dumbledore's disapproval."

          Without questioning Hannibal, they all turned around. However, and as they were walking down Magnolia Road, one of the inhabitants, who was currently working in her garden, and who knew Dudley and Hannibal well, offered them an ice cream to fight off the harsh warmth of the afternoon. Both boys took her up on her offer. Harry wasn't surprised when he didn't receive anything, he was known in the neighbourhood to be nothing more than a delinquent, the kind that was sent to correctional facilities all year long. However, when they walked to the closest park and sat on the swings to enjoy their ice cream, Hannibal handed his to Harry.

"You don't want it?" Harry frowned.

"There are few things in life I ever wanted less than that ice cream."

          Harry looked at the ice cream, which seemed to be the usual industrial type that was found in every supermarket. Clearly not the kind he could envision Hannibal enjoying.

          He took the ice cream and began to open it.

"You really should eat a bit more, Hannibal."

"Do not worry, Harry. The appetite will soon come back."

          Dudley and Harry enjoyed their ice cream under the heavy sun while Hannibal, sitting between them, slightly swung back and forth, his eyes lost on the cloudless sky.

          Once they were done, Dudley let the paper of his ice cream fall on the floor but a very long, awkward and insistent look from Hannibal convinced him to pick it up again and bring it to the nearest bin. They then all walked back to their house.

          Maybe Hannibal had been right. This walk had no magical properties, but at least, Harry felt a bit more in peace. For half an hour, his summer had looked and felt like a summer. But, like every season, it was doomed to end.

          Harry felt something was off the second he stepped into the garden.

          The house was strangely silent, filled with an eerie stillness. Uncle Vernon was gone for the day, and Aunt Petunia was not the loudest of them all, so it was technically nothing out of the ordinary. Yet, Harry could tell something was definitely wrong.

          He turned to the two boys. Hannibal didn't seem to have noticed anything and, humming to himself, he was already walking up the stairs to the room he was sharing with Harry.

          But Dudley had noticed something too. He was looking around with a frown, as if trying to spot something in the recesses of the corridors. Harry did the same but found nothing. Yet, when his eyes met Dudley's, they both knew there was something different about the house.

"It's you?" Dudley asked, suspiciously.

"It's me what?"

          That seemed to convince him, and he walked to the living room with a shrug.

"Mum?"

          Harry looked at the steps in front of him. Hannibal was already upstairs. Certainly, he hadn't known the house for long enough to notice if anything was different, but his friend had nonetheless a keen sense of observation, and Harry didn't think asking him for his opinion could be anything but useful. He began to climb up the stairs when Dudley's voice echoed once again.

"Mum?!"

          But this time, something in his tone had changed.

"MUM!!"

          Harry turned around at once and ran to the door behind which Dudley had disappeared. He heard footsteps above his head, telling him that Hannibal had reacted to the call as well.

          The living room was empty, and Harry continued his run to the kitchen, at the entrance of which he could spot Dudley.

          When he arrived by his cousin's side, he stopped right in his tracks.

          He first thought that something thick and sticky had been spilled on the floor. Sauce maybe, or syrup. When he tried to take a step, his shoe detached itself from the substance with a wet and disgusting sucking noise. But, more than the look and the sound of it, it was the smell that alerted Harry. For it was a smell he would breathe every night since the beginning of the summer. A smell haunting his nightmares like the stench of his faults.

          The smell of blood.

          In a puddle of it, recovering every inch of floor of the small kitchen, Harry and Dudley were standing.

          Only a few feet away from Aunt Petunia, lying at their feet.

          Hannibal Lecter arrived behind them before they could understand the scene.

          And if Harry had been able to read minds, he would have been able to guess Hannibal's silenced thoughts. About how much this blood that had stopped spilling from Petunia Dursley's veins and was now staining the world around her corpse looked like the spreading infection crowning a purulent wound.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 1

Motherless

          Dudley Dursley had never been to a police station before.

          He had never come close to. That didn't mean he had never done anything that could be frowned upon and judged harshly. Though Dudley believed it had always been justified, he was also fully aware that beating up other kids – if it wasn't on a ring designed for it – could bring trouble to the beater. But folks had had to know the beatings were fair for none had dared to say a word about them and Dudley had pictured a police free life for himself.

          Yet, today, here he was. Sitting on one of the old plastic chairs of that small precinct, waiting for his father to pick him up.

          Just above his head, there was a clock. Dudley had noticed it for the only reason that it was annoyingly noisy, punctuating every second with a loud echoing tick.

          The very few times he had wondered what it would be like to be brought to a police station, he had never envisioned himself in any other role than the one of the guilty party.

          His eyes fell from the clock and landed on the cup of hot chocolate between his hands. It had been given to him without his input, and he wasn't sure what to do with it.

          He detailed the paper cup, which had once been white but was now slowly browning.

          By the time the police had come, his mother's blood too had been brown on the white floor.

          Harry and Hannibal were there too. The police had brought the three of them, unwilling to leave any kid behind.

          Dudley thought the waiting for his father would have been less insufferable if he had been allowed to stay home, where he had his computer, his bike and no fucking clock loudly coughing its last breath on the wall.

          Yes, Dudley would have preferred to stay at home. And he didn't know if he was too happy about Harry and Hannibal being with him.

          He had never really liked Harry. Sure, growing up with him had been fun at times, when Dudley would run after him during recess or send Aunt Madge's dogs to bite his butt. That had been fun. But waiting on shitty chairs with him was not his idea of a good time.

          He liked Hannibal a bit better, but wasn't sure either he wouldn't have preferred him further away.

          Dudley didn't like to think too much about it but, he had to admit... Hannibal looked a bit like a sissy. Sitting there, his legs crossed, in bright, close-fitting clothes, humming to himself. Dudley didn't mind most of the time. Hannibal only looked like a sissy, he wasn't actually one, and Dudley's friends knew that. But here...

          He looked around and, for a moment, wondered what those nameless faces waiting on chairs similar to his were thinking of him and his company.

          On the other hand, Harry and Hannibal were better at words than him and they had been the one calling and talking to the police for him. Maybe things were better that way. With his cousin and his friend by his side, no matter his feelings and thoughts about any of them.

          As if reading his mind, Hannibal passed an arm around Dudley's shoulders.

          It was meant as a gesture of comfort, Dudley knew. It didn't feel like it, however. Dudley wasn't sure much could be done or said to bring him any comfort.

          But Hannibal tried nonetheless.

"Do not fret," he whispered in Dudley's ear, "you are not alone. You now have a permanent commonality with Harry and I. We can bond over our lack of mother."

          Officer Silya Tahid never liked to work on these cases. Unlike most that had dreamed of that job as soon as their early childhood, Silya had never wanted to be a cop for the shiny aspects. Early in her life, she had realized that police work was often meeting human misery and she had craved for it. Not for misery itself but for the feeling of usefulness. The meaning misery could often give to one’s action and role.

          But, that kind of case, she had always hated it. Like everyone else in the department.

          One could think that, when the wrong doer and the wronged were the same person, police work became easy. But that was without considering the human aspect. Which always became messier in these settings.

          She stepped out of the little alcove where her desk was, and leaned against the wall on her right, looking at the boys from across the precinct.

          She knew their names.

          She had always had the worst memory for names and faces, still getting some of her co-workers wrong, but, when it came to the families, she would always make sure to repeat each to herself several times, so as to never forget any of them.

          Dudley Dursley. Hannibal Lecter. Harry Potter.

          She had been the one picking them up from the house to bring them here. They had been deadly silent throughout the whole ride and if one of them - the tall one with the accent - Hannibal Lecter, she knew - had been able to talk to her and tell her a bit about the situation, who they were, and how things were at home, the black haired boy - Harry Potter, she repeated - had barely whispered more than onomatopoeia, and the last one, the blond one, had not utter the slightest sound.

          Dudley Dursley.

          He was the son. There had been pictures of him all over the walls, looking down on the corpse of the bled-out mother.

          The boy had had distant eyes ever since she had picked him up. As if he didn't know how he was supposed to react. Or as if he hadn't understood what he was supposed to react to.

          She had tried a couple of words, but she knew she couldn't and shouldn't force the realization if his mind was not ready for it. Time would have to accompany his grief, way past her own abilities.

          The other two boys seemed more aware than Dudley Dursley. Maybe because they were not as close to the victim as him. None of them had lost their mother today.

          Harry Potter was the cousin. An orphan, he had been welcomed by his aunt and uncle before his two years of age and had grown up in that house. Maybe, for him too, it was something akin to a mother that he had lost today. Hannibal Lecter, however, was not part of the family at all. From what Silya had gathered, he was a school friend of Harry Potter who had been invited for the summer break. He had been her privileged interlocutor when it had come to gathering information and Silya was relieved that the two other boys had a mature and caring friend by their side.

"You're not with the husband?"

          Silya was too used to the constant noise of the precinct to be startled and she turned around to see her desk neighbour by her side, looking at the three waiting boys too.

"The husband? He has arrived?"

"Yeah. Twenty minutes ago or so."

"What? Who told you that?"

"Amy. She is at the front desk today. Told me he was in room number three with Emerson."

"They were to tell me as soon as he arrived!"

"They didn't?"

"Clearly not!"

"Oh... Maybe they got mixed up with who has which case. I didn't really get why she told me at all, maybe she thought I was the one taking care of it."

"I swear, I can't with all these mix-ups anymore!"

          Infuriated, she stormed away. It was the third time in a month that something like that had happened to her. She was now more surprised when she had the right information than when she had the wrong or misdirected one. However, she made sure to compose herself before reaching the three boys and it was with a calm voice and a benevolent smile that she talked to Dudley Dursley.

"Dudley, your father is here."

          The boy had his eyes on the clock hanging to the wall, on the wall opposite to him, and it took a couple of long seconds before he turned toward her, understanding painting itself on his face at an excruciatingly slow pace.

          Lecter, however, had been a bit quicker and was already on his feet, a hand on his friend’s shoulder to help him in turn. Potter, who had ventured toward the old and discoloured prevention posters on the wall to read them carefully, had come back to them when she had arrived, and Silya gestured for them to follow her.

          Together they walked to room 3, but Silya asked them to wait a second as she opened the door.

          Popping her head inside, she took her first look at the victim's husband. Vernon Dursley was sitting on one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands, his eyes as vague as his son's. Emerson was by his side, talking in a slow, quiet voice. Silya waved at him, but she quickly turned to the one in need of attention.

"Mr Dursley, your son is waiting to see you. Is it okay if he comes in?"

          Sometimes, people needed a few minutes to compose themselves, especially if it was to meet their children and Silya had taken the habit of asking beforehand. But Dursley blinked a few times before nodding.

          Silya stepped back and held the door open for the boys.

"Come in," she said quietly, with a reassuring smile.

          The son entered first, followed closely by the friend then the cousin. Silya didn't even have time to close the door behind her when the silence and slowness that had fallen upon that family blew at once.

          At the second Vernon Dursley saw Harry Potter, his face metamorphosed. From blankly distant, it became suffocated and purple with pulsing veins around his temples, his small eyes widening and dangerously popping out, his moustache trembling with his lips.

"You!" he choked.

          He stood up in one harsh jump, his chair falling on the ground. Ermerson jumped back in surprise.

"It's you!" he repeated, a shaking finger pointed at Harry Potter. "YOU DID THIS!"

          He stormed toward the boy but, before she or Emerson could even react, Harry Potter had jumped away from his uncle, sinking his head between his shoulders to remain out of the man's reach.

          And Silya understood at once, this scene echoing many she had witnessed in her childhood.

          The ease with which the boy had dodged, the way he had found in a second the place furthest away from the angry man, as if out of habit, the lack of reactions of the other family members...

          Silya knew what this was all about.

"Mr Dursley!" she called out.

          Emerson had had time to react too, and he was now on his feet.

"Mr Dursley, please, calm down. I know it is hard to accept, but no one is to blame for what happened."

          Emerson had been talking to the man for the past twenty minutes and Silya knew it was wiser to let him calm the situation down. However, she also stepped in, physically putting herself between the uncle and the nephew, so as to make sure no harm could come to the boy.

"It's him I tell you!" Dursley continued to scream. "I knew we should never have taken you in! I told Petunia! We should have let the likes of you on that threshold, never to enter our lives! Leave you to the street where you belong!"

          Silya decided the boy had heard enough.

"Emerson..." she called.

          Her colleague nodded, knowing what she wanted to do, before going back to Dursley and continuing to talk to him in an even voice.

          Silya quickly reached for the shoulder of the boy behind her and began to rush him to the door. She eyed the room, as to judge if the other boys needed to be taken out as well, but the son seemed as calm as before, sitting by the side of his father's knocked off chair, and the friend, just as silent and still the most collected of them all, was standing without fear a few feet away from the screaming man, his eyes detailing him carefully. None seemed in any emotional distress and the most pressing issue was the threatened boy. Therefore, Silya closed the door on her and Harry Potter, bringing him back to the safety of the noisy precinct.

          Once she was certain Dursley was not following them, she turned to the boy.

          He was looking at the door that had just been closed with dark eyes, but he otherwise seemed incredibly calm, compared to the scene of verbal violence that had taken place a second ago.

          It was not unexpected for him, and it was nothing he had not seen before, she realized with an acute sadness.

"Are you alright?" she nonetheless asked.

"Yeah," he simply answered.

"Come with me."

          Silya guided him toward her desk, which was a more comfortable place than the middle of a corridor.

"Do you want something to drink?" she asked.

          The precinct only had water, however she always made sure to keep a can of soda or juice in her drawer for those who could use it.

          But the boy shook his head.

"Please, sit down."

          Harry Potter was of average height for his age, skinny in a fashion that adolescents growing too fast often tended to mimic, which told Silya that he had been quite the short boy not so long ago. He had unruly black hair, the exact opposite of his cousin's blond and carefully cared for one, and big round glasses on his nose that appeared to be as old as himself. What really caught the Officer's attention, however, was the pale scar on his forehead. It seemed old, yet incredibly deep despite its thinness.

"Quite the interesting shape, your scar," she said with a smile. "How did you get it?"

"In a car accident," he said right away.

          His answer had been too quick and reactive to be quite sincere, however it wasn't the usual lie people would go to. Most preferred simpler explanations, like a fall in the stairs or a bump into the doorframe.

          And that regular, precise shape? It was no aimless and accidental harm. It was coming from someone with a motive.

"May I call you Harry?"

"Well, that's my name," the boy shrugged.

"How are things at home, Harry?"

          Harry frowned, visibly not understanding the question. It was an usual one asked by social workers and the fact that Harry seemed unsure what it even meant showed that he had not met many of them.

"What do you mean?"

"How is your relationship with your family members?"

"Normal, I guess."

"Your uncle seemed very upset, is that something usual for you?"

          Harry tensed immediately, his strikingly green eyes darkening under his frowned eyebrows.

"It's not me," he exclaimed right away. "He said so but it's not true. I was with Hannibal and Dudley. You can ask them, they will tell you. I couldn't have been at fault."

          Silya had not expected such a defensive reaction from the boy, as if he was certain that he would be accused at the first opportunity. Most of her colleagues saw that kind of behaviour as a telling sign of guilt. But Silya knew better. It was a sign of someone used to being blamed.

"I know," she kindly said. "I have no doubt."

          It was true. Though there had been no note left, they weren't that common in that kind of cases anyway, and Petunia Dursley had displayed many signs of depressive behaviour weeks before her death, as reported by her dying houseplants she used to love so much, and her neighbours who had seen less and less of her. No one was being suspected, especially not Harry Potter.

          However, the boy didn't seem to believe that at all, waiting for a confrontation Silya had no desire to bring upon him.

"Ask them," he repeated.

"I didn't have to, your friend Hannibal told me all about your afternoon together. No one here blames you for anything, Harry. You are not a suspect."

          The boy didn't add anything, but when he leaned against his chair, he didn't seem any less tense.

"Your uncle, he said something in that room. He said he should have never welcomed you. Is it something you've heard a lot?"

"Yeah. They’re not too fond of me."

"Why aren't they?"

"It's complicated."

"Try to tell me, if you can."

          Harry sighed deeply, his eyes distant, telling of his search for words.

"They never planned on having me, I guess. I don't think Aunt Petunia liked my mother very much."

"Her sister?"

"Yeah. She didn't like my mother and my father. So, when they had to take me in, I can guess they weren't so thrilled."

"Yet they did."

"Yeah. I think my parents' friends were insistent about it."

"They cared about you."

          Harry nodded but didn't voice anything else. What friends and how insistent, he didn't tell.

"The kind of scene that just happened, is it something you see a lot, back at home?"

"It happens. But the situation here is a bit... I mean, nothing's usual, right now."

"Of course. But has your uncle ever tried to be physically violent with you, as he has just tried here."

          Harry shrugged again. That line of questioning didn't create much emotion in him, it seemed.

"Yeah. Not so much since... since middle school, though."

"Have you been able to receive some help about it? Have you talked to someone? To the police?"

"It's no big deal."

"I think it is."

"No, it isn't," he insisted. "I'm already barely living with them; my life is somewhere else. I don't care much about whether or not they like me."

"Why are you not living with them? Are you moving out?"

          The boy was fifteen, according to the information she had gathered. He would soon be sixteen, but it was still a bit young to leave home.

"I'm in a boarding school," he said. "I'm mostly living there, and after graduation, I'll move out permanently."

"You like it there? At school I mean."

"Yeah. It's a great place. I have all my friends there."

          Being able to get out of the house without roaming the streets, that boy had had more luck than most in his situation.

"Has your uncle ever been violent with your aunt?" she asked.

"No. They were made for each other, really. The perfect match."

"The way you make it sounds... it's not a compliment, is it?"

"Depends on the point of view. He has never been violent with her. He was respectful and caring, I guess. I've never seen them even argue."

          Silya remembered the way the son had remained reactionless to the scene. Apparently, Harry had been the sole object of Mr Dursley's crystalized anger. It was not an unheard occurrence, but it was always the most sickening for Silya. There was something about the passive complicity that she just couldn't stomach.

"Ma'am?"

          Silya refocused her attention on the boy.

"Yes?"

"Do you have any idea why she... why she did that?"

"This kind of death always brings a lot of questions, not all of them will be answered. No, I don't know. Maybe she was struggling with matters she didn't talk about. We all have our thoughts and ordeals."

"She didn't seem... She didn’t say... I don't know. I wouldn’t have thought, in a million years,..."

"As it is often the case. Only she could tell exactly. And wondering too much about it wouldn't do a lot of good."

          The boy frowned again, lost in his contemplations.

"What are you thinking about?" she softly asked.

"Well, just about it. I don't... I still can't make sense of it."

"It takes t..."

          Before she could end her sentence, she noticed a silhouette idling from the corner of her eyes. The third boy, Hannibal Lecter, had walked to them and was now quietly waiting to be acknowledged, careful not to interrupt their conversation.

"Is everything alright?" she asked him with a smile.

"Yes, as alright as it gets. Vernon and Dudley are sharing a moment of grief in which I have no place. I hope I don't intrude."

"Not at all, quite the contrary. Is there anything you want?"

"Enlightenment wouldn't be so bad," he answered with a smile matching her own.

"Enlightenment? About what?"

"About what will become of Harry and I now."

          This time, it was Harry who turned around to face his friend.

"What do you mean, 'what will become of you and me'?"

"Surely we won't be going home tonight. Or if we do, it is but an extremely temporary situation."

"Why?" he frowned without understanding.

"Well..."

          Hannibal Lecter marked a silence, as if the answer was so obvious to him, he wasn't certain how to word it, but he finally continued.

"What point us living there would have, now?"

          Harry Potter continued to frown for less than a second before his eyes opened in understanding. Hannibal Lecter resumed.

"The unfortunate passing of your aunt put a definitive and irreversible end to your life with the Dursleys. And, with it, it puts an end to mine as well, sadly enough."

“Dudley…”

“Not that easy, Harry.”

"Wait a second," Silya interrupted. "I don't follow. Why does that jeopardize Harry's life with his uncle and cousin?"

          She of course understood that, if Harry had to leave, so would his friend who was only invited for the summer break, but Vernon Dursley was still the closest family Harry had. She was all too willing to open a case about what kind of treatment the boy was receiving in that household, and she truly hoped he could quickly move to a safest place for him, but his friend seemed to believe that this change was to happen in the following hours.

          And Harry seemed to believe it too, now.

"With Aunt Petunia... not here anymore, I have no connection left to the Dursleys," he said to her.

"Vernon Dursley is still your legal guardian. He can't kick you out just like that. I understand that it is not a place you want to stay in, but it is better than having nowhere to go."

"No," he winced, "it's not about that it's..."

"What is it about?"

"You wouldn't understand."

          Silya looked at the other boy, but his blank face told her just as much as Harry's silence.

"I would still like you to try. What is it about?"

"I... I can't tell."

"Why?"

          Harry didn't answer. He simply kept his eyes on his shoes, his fingers drumming on his knees.

"Is someone pressuring you?" she tried again but it didn't get her anything.

          He simply looked at his friend for an help that didn't come.

          Silya was left at a loss. She couldn't make sense of anything. She had always considered herself to be a sensitive person, which she viewed as a strength. She had a keen and subtle understanding of human behaviour and human situations. Yet, that Harry Potter was a mystery.

          He had been living for years with that abusive uncle, to a point where he was now used to him without really fearing him anymore. The family was complicit and so was the friend. Silya still remembered that the friend had been just as calm and unsurprised as the cousin when the uncle had begun to walk toward Harry.

          And now, there was that big secret, that Harry couldn't tell her even though his school friend was apparently fully aware of it. It seemed that something was preventing them from talking to her about an important matter but what? Was someone putting pressure on Harry? Was it a threat his uncle or someone else made against him? And what was Hannibal Lecter's role in that?

          Silya could tell something bigger was taking place behind that. But she had no idea what shape it could possibly have.

          And she didn't know yet that she was never meant to understand it.

"Listen, both of you. Whatever you are struggling with, here is a safe place where you can..."

"Good morning, Officer Tahid."

          Silya turned around to face the man with the low voice who had somehow been able to reach her desk without her noticing him at all.

"Good morning, sir," she said instinctively. "How may I help you?"

"My name is Kingsley Shaklebolt, and I am here for Harry Potter and Hannibal Lecter."

          Albus Dumbledore had often mingled with muggles in his life.

          At least more often than people assumed.

          Presumed to be a pure blood by those for whom it mattered, and having notably been an inhabitant of one of the most important wizard villages, people were quick to think he had led the usual magical life, away from the muggle world. After all, he had become a teacher at Hogwarts awfully young, at an age similar to Severus'. And Hogwarts professors rarely left the castle, even during breaks, it was a well known fact. That, added to the fact that Albus was a major pillar of their community, being entrusted with both effective and symbolic authority at every level of the wizarding political system, people never associated him to the muggle world.

          But, as it was often the case when it came to him, people were wrong in their assumptions.

          Albus knew a great deal about muggles and had spent more time with them than the average ‘pure blooded’ wizard.

          When he had been a very young boy, barely a toddler, his father had often taken him with him, while traveling for his work. As an Archeomage, Percival Dumbledore had had to interact with muggles a lot, as most of the sites he was meant to study were owned by muggles. Albus had learned very young that there was in muggles the same curiosity and the same brightness as in wizards and he had met many impressive people during the earliest years of his life.

          Later on, as a young man, he had lived among them for a while. After the loss of his family, freed from it and debilitated by guilt, he had left the wizarding world, incapable of stomaching anything familiar anymore. And afraid to hear public echoes of the private dream he had shared with Gellert Grindelwald. He had met many muggles during that period of his life, had seen their misery and their suffering and had understood that their blissful and spared innocence was a deceitful lie that wizards had told themselves instead of admitting that they could share something with them. And that muggles were beings just as complex and multi-faceted as them.

          Later still, and even after he had finished building his life as a Professor, he had, at times, been an active presence in some muggle circles. The inter-war period had been a strange time for both communities. The wizarding one, riddled with traumas and bitterness, had let their worse flaws take over and become prided features. Albus had feared that violentization and radicalization that the whole world had been going through at that time. Both of which had allowed a figure as the one of Gellert Grindelwald to rise. But, as it was often the case, a contrary force had also grown and Albus had grabbed it with both hands. During that troubled time, he had explored a field where muggles had always dominated, art and philosophy. Many artists would meet in private circles, as a means to defend themselves from the craziness of the world. Especially as World War II had grown closer and some of them had been deemed 'degenerate' and worthy of persecution. Albus had scoured these hidden places and counter societies. He had met there geniuses as brilliant as his, many more than he had seen in the wizarding world. Spirits enlightened by sensitivity, ready to explore the world in unsuspected depths.

          Albus Dumbledore hated the expression ‘muggle lover’. He found it to be of unmatched condescendence. As if muggles were unevolved pets that one could appreciate through a glass, nearly out of charity. He was not a muggle lover. He was simply not blinded enough to believe muggles were different enough to have about them an opinion dissimilar to the one he had about wizards.

          That was to say that Dumbledore knew of muggle places. And muggle habits. Most wizards wouldn't even know how to talk to one of them, and here he was, sitting at the table of a muggle restaurant which, over the many years, had become one of his only true regular haunts.

          Albus closed his eyes. He could feel his magic vibrate all around him like capillaries carrying a protective and coating sap. As he had been sitting here, he had done more than pondering, slowly sewing a charm around the place that could keep safe and discreet the people inside. In the darkened uncertainty that had become their world, Albus' bright magic had made a safehouse of this muggle place.

          He opened his eyes and looked around. He didn't know why he had come here in the first place. It was a beautiful restaurant, with its columns, its high ceiling, its serenity. On the other hand, it was very formal and uptight, made to impress, none of them were features Albus was usually drawn to.

          He didn't know why he had entered the first time, but he knew why he had come back. Because it was here that, in 1932, he had met Gellert for the first time since the death of Ariana. It was here that he had dared to face him in a desperate attempt to save him from himself.

          It hadn't worked but having tried was one of Albus' very few and shy relieves.

          He had come back, over and over, after that, trying to catch between those walls the echoes of the short and deleterious moment he had shared with Gellert. A glimpse of hope for redemption that had become Albus' favorite fashion of moral flagellation.

          Very fitting, he thought as Hannibal Lecter entered the restaurant.

          His magic buzzed in his ear, telling him that new souls had entered its protected territory. Despite the uneasiness that came with the confrontation there was to come, Albus was relieved to see both boys safe and sound. When he had understood that the bond with Lily's blood - upon which he had built his protective spells fifteen years ago - had suddenly broken, he had realized that both boys had been in dire danger and his mind was only now settling down, as Kingsley walked in with his young charges. They spotted him at once. Maybe thanks to the bright plum dress he was wearing, and which drew to him the many suspicious glances.

          A waitress came to them and greeted them. After a couple of exchanged words, she led them to Albus' table and discreetly left them to it.

"No trouble I hope," he said as Kingsley sat by his right.

          Harry was a bit more hesitant, looking around with wide eyes, certainly not quite believing he was seeing his Headmaster in such a mundane place.

          Hannibal, not looking surprised in the slightest, smiled at him and sat down across from the table.

"None whatsoever," Kingsley answered. "The muggle officer seemed reluctant to let them go, but Mr Dursley was more than willing to have them be taken away. There wasn't much they could do to prevent me from taking them with me, with the papers you gave me."

"I figured."

"You are well rounded in the muggle administrative and legal system," Hannibal said.

          The last time he had seen him, it had been a month ago, when Hannibal had knocked at his office's door to give him back the healed Sorting Hat. He had tried to talk to him, tried to settle the boy's discreet yet poignant distress. Hannibal had not even admitted it. He had refused to acknowledge everything more than annoyance, yet annoyance could not create such vitriolic bitterness. When they had parted, Albus had been reminded of that fateful summer day where Gellert had disappeared in a blink and left him gapping behind. Except that this time, Hannibal and Will had not doomed each other. Instead, it had been Albus who had stepped between them. And he could tell, today, that the resentment in Hannibal's eyes, though colder and darker, was still as bitter.

          Albus wasn't certain why. Why such a small separation had been of such painful importance to Hannibal. Why the damage had been dealt so deeply, when there was no real measure to it. Why he now seemed to wear on his emaciate body the stigmata of Will's absence. It had no magical explanation. Horcruxes could be separated from their source. It was even their whole point. And Hannibal's soul was not incomplete, like Voldemort's, since he had Will's to dress the wound. He should have been fine.

          Yet, when Hannibal sat in front of him, Albus knew that they were now irredeemable enemies. As some insults simply couldn’t be forgiven.

          However, he couldn't let his empathy, or his doubt blur his mind. The only reason why Albus was here today was because Hannibal was a danger beyond what he could disregard.

          Petunia Dursley was proof of it.

          She hadn't died from her own hand. Maybe the gesture had been hers, but the thought hadn't. Not really. She had died from the same kind of disease the Sorting Hat had suffered through. The very specific brand of psychological infection that seemed to follow Hannibal Lecter around.

          And though the boy had said that he hadn't infected the Hat on purpose... Petunia Dursley's death was too convenient an answer to Hannibal's specific problem.

"I am confronted with all kinds of familial situations," Albus answered after a moment. "You are not the first students that we take away from the muggle system."

          Before Hannibal could continue any line of conversation, Albus turned toward Harry.

"Sit down, Harry. We may have to wait here for a little while."

          Harry sat down but the surprise was still very much present.

"What are we doing here, Professor?" he asked.

"You were not safe where you were. As soon as we learned about the situation, we tried to get you two to a safer place. This is a safer place for now."

"So... We're not going back to the Dursleys'..."

"I'm afraid not, Harry. The protective spells I put around the house all crumbled to dust the second Petunia Dursley died."

          Actually, it had been the second her blood had begun to be cleaned up from the floor. That was the reason why it had taken him hours to realize she had died and to react to the situation. However, there was something disrespectful in talking of the end of Petunia through stains cleaned up from the floor, therefore he harmlessly changed the truth.

“What about the cousin?” Kingsley asked. “It’s the same blood. Shouldn’t it have taken over?”

“In some ways, it can. But Lily’s protection is not what protects the house. What protects the house is the spells I built around the bond between Lily’s magic and Petunia’s blood. With that gone, so were my spells.”

“You’re gonna cast them again?” Harry asked. “For Dudley?”

“It would be trickier as Dudley is further away from your mother. And he is also unable to welcome you, as he is not an adult nor the owner of the house. Vernon Dursley is now the only owner of it. And he is not connected to Lily. If you were to stay in the house, Dudley’s blood could protect you against Voldemort, but nothing would protect you against all the other dangers lurking in the shadows.”

          Harry nodded in understanding, however, Albus spotted a diluted form of sadness and worry over his face. One that didn’t seem to come from the fact that he was not about to go back to the Durlseys’.

"What is it, Harry?"

"Nothing."

"In my experience, it rarely is."

          Harry looked at him, as if he wanted nothing more than to be reassured.

"It's just... I'm thinking about Dudley. Not the house, just Dudley… I don't like him that much, and he doesn't like me either. But... Forget it."

"But you know his pain."

          And you never wish for the worse, Albus continued in his head.

          Harry had often looked up to him, but Albus hoped that, one day, the boy would realize how much better he was than the old Headmaster. There was a natural goodness in Harry that Albus had only been able to emulate.

"The three of you," he continued, "you all lost your mothers. You know what pain and loneliness lie ahead of Dudley Dursley. It is a good thing, Harry, that you can't keep a shared suffering at bay. It does not feel good, but it is telling of a wonderful humanity."

"If we wanted the suffering to be truly shared," Hannibal casually said while taking a look at the menu, "Dudley would have needed to lose more than his mother."

"You're right, it’s not as bad, at least he has someone," Harry nodded, misunderstanding the barely hidden hint in Hannibal's statement.

          But Dumbledore didn't miss anything. And he detailed Hannibal with wary eyes.

          Hannibal simply smiled at him and put the menu back on the table.

"I will take the Foie Gras as a starter."

"We're staying here long enough to eat?" Kingsley asked.

"I don't know yet. I am waiting for news from Severus and Arthur. The Burrow is not ready to welcome them, just yet. In the meantime, if you are hungry go ahead. Whether or not we cut the meal short, we will know soon enough."

"I'm fine," Harry said. "We're going to the Burrow? Not Grimmauld Place?"

"No. Grimmauld Place may not be our safest option."

          Harry's eyes open wide in worries.

"Why?"

"There is nothing to be anxious about, Harry. Sirius is perfectly safe. But, it came to our attention that there was a reason why Voldemort used his image to lure you in, in June."

"What reason?"

"We now know that Voldemort has been in contact with Kreacher. Or more likely, Bellatrix Lestrange has been."

"But, I thought house elves couldn't betray their masters."

"They have loyalties of their own. As your friend Dobby taught you. It seemed that he has been able to use Sirius' orders to leave the house for a moment and find what he views to be a friend. I am not yet fully certain of how much he has been able to tell her, but it is very likely that Bellatrix is aware of where to wait for you, if you were to try to reach Grimmauld Place. Kreacher had no means to divulge the exact address, but he may have figured out other ways to deliver vital information. Moving you to the Burrow is a safer project for now than moving you to Grimmauld Place."

"And Sirius is still there?"

"Yes. The house will protect him. It is the path to it that is dangerous."

"And where is Will?" Hannibal asked. "Confined with Sirius Black?"

"No."

"Is he at this Burrow place you mentioned?"

"He is not there either for now."

"Will he be once we get there?"

          Albus was nearly curious about what would happen if he was to answer negatively. Morbidly curious. But there was no point to such a lie.

"Now that the Dursleys' house is not safe anymore, I will try to keep the three of you together, as it will then be easier to protect you."

          Hannibal leaned against his chair with satisfaction, his eyes resolutely fixed on Dumbledore's.

"If Dudley’s blood is too weak or something like that… is it possible that my mother's protection doesn't exist anymore?" Harry asked

"It still does," Dumbledore answered. "Because of Voldemort’s actions, last year."

"He took my blood."

"Yes. And you are more closely related to your mother than Dudley. Voldemort is another relay to your mother's magic now. Dudley Dursley’s blood would only matter for the house, had he been the owner."

"What about him then? And uncle Vernon? If Voldemort and his Death Eaters can now come to them."

          This time, it was Kingsley who answered.

"Once you will both be brought to safety, I will go back to them. Try to convince them to move away. You-know-who shouldn't put too much effort into looking for a muggle family. Once out of the city, and with minor cautions, they should be out of harm’s way. But it was more important to retrieve both of you first, as our enemy will be more... dedicated, for you."

"You will be able to get to them before they are back to their house?" Harry asked.

"I will try. If I can't, Arthur will try to delay them. But he is no fighter, it would be better for me to handle it. Professor Dumbledore, what needs to be waited for, exactly?"

"As we had no plan on having Harry and Hannibal join the Burrow before at least the second half of August, only the minimal protections are already in place. I have gone to the house to create safer charms when I have felt my former ones crumble away, but some specific additions are necessary. I need Severus and Filius to have a look at the place."

"Snape will be there?" Harry asked right away.

"Professor Snape, Harry. And yes. Though not when you will be. But he will be able to bring some welcomed reinforcements to the security."

          Albus closed his fist under his long sleeve. The bright fabric was perfectly hiding the black, cursed skin, eaten by the dark magic it had touched. He couldn't feel anything from it anymore, but he could still move it. Thanks to Severus' help, he had been able to win precious months of life. He was past ignoring his colleague’s incommensurable knowledge in dark arts.

"Ultimately," he resumed, going back to Kingsley's question, "they shouldn't take too long but I warned them against rushing. We don't want to attract extra attention."

"With the Ministry monitoring every means of transport..." Kingsley nodded along.

          Things had become significantly worse as Scrimgeour had risen to the role of Minister, finally stepping in the fight against Voldemort. It had its perks, but mostly, Scrimgeour was too desperate to get into their plans to really be of help. At least, they didn't have to deal with active defamation anymore. Quite the contrary.

"They are to tell me once they are done. I already received a word from Filius, we are now waiting for Severus, for as long as it will take."

"Hopefully not long," Kingsley commented. "The last time Arthur interacted with the Dursleys, it didn't go that well."

"We will improvise from there, if it comes to that."

          They all fell into silence for a couple of minutes, lost in their respective thoughts. There was a lot Albus wanted to say. But few he could. What he wanted to say to Harry couldn't be heard by Hannibal, and the converse was even truer.

          However, it was Harry who talked again, on his own accord, certainly after reaching the dead end of his reflections.

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"What about Hagrid? Is he still... Is he still in Azkaban? Sirius wouldn't tell me much about him?"

"There hadn't been much to say for a long time. His trial took place less than a week ago."

"And?"

"Mitigated outcomes. Thankfully, we have been able to gather many character witnesses who have painted an accurate portrait of our friend. It has been deemed that there has been no malicious intent in Hagrid's behaviour, and no ulterior motive. The charges of plotting against the ministry and of complicity to murder have been dropped. However, he was still guilty of bringing a Giant inside the country and, what is even trickier, on Hogwarts territory."

"He is not gonna be sent to Azkaban for that, right?"

"No, but he is now prohibited from working in the public service and won't be allowed within Hogwarts vicinity. We will try an appeal but my expectations are low. Dolores Umbridge's death was Rufus Scrimgeour's last investigation, he is zealous to see it to its end."

"What does that... What does that actually mean, sir. For Hagrid."

"He won't be able to come back as a teacher or a groundskeeper. He won't be able to come back at all."

          Albus could see the feeling of unfairness and revolt slowly grow on Harry's face but there wasn't much that could be done about it.

"I will make sure to let him know where you will be until the end of the summer break. He will pass by Arthur's and Molly's house and you will be able to talk to him. He and I will figure together what is the best course of action from now on, but you must know, Harry, that he was very moved by what you and Will did for his brother."

"It was nothing. It doesn't change a thing."

"It changes a lot, Harry. In the fight to come, you must not neglect those kinds of gestures."

          At the word 'fight', Harry's eyes lit up at once.

"Sir... Last time, in your office, you said... You said you would use my help in the fight to come. You meant it, didn't you?"

"I rarely say words I do not mean. They are too precious to be wasted."

"What will I do, exactly?"

"Once at Hogwarts, I will have a discussion with you. With Hannibal also, and Will of course. We will clarify what needs to be clarified. But yes, if you are willing, I would be reassured to see you take a more active role."

"I'm willing, sir."

          And Harry's determination created a sharp sense of guilt in Albus' heart. The old Headmaster knew exactly the right words to ignite this young bravery. If this fight was to be Harry's final one, yet another blood would paint his hands. The only relief - a pathetic one - was that he wouldn't be there to see it anymore.

"I have noticed the press had been significantly kinder to Harry over the past month," Hannibal casually brought up in the silence that followed.

"Indeed," Kingsley nodded. "The Daily Prophet and the Ministry are eager to make people forget their past flaws. They are all praising Harry's intervention in the Department of Mysteries."

"I've read the articles," Harry told them with a frown. "They are deceptive."

"I found them to be rather eulogistic," Hannibal commented.

"They make it sound like I was acting alone."

"One-man armies create stronger symbols of hope than organized groups," Kingsley wisely said.

          He was absolutely right. 'Harry Potter' inspired more trust and support than 'a group of students'.

"Still, it's barely if they mentioned Luna at all. And they wrote I fought Voldemort. Hannibal's name is not even written. Same for Will, or Hermione, who stayed behind to fight off the Death Eaters."

"Anonymity for now is my greatest pleasure, Harry. I must thank you for taking that burden on your shoulders."

"But, it's not..."

          Harry was interrupted by a small sparkle that silently appeared at the middle of the table, turning itself into a flame then a red feather. Fawkes'.

"Severus is done, the house is safe. We can go now."

"I need to go back to the Dursleys' to take some of my belongings," Hannibal said right away.

"It would not be safe," Kingsley answered without even a thought.

"Yet it is necessary."

"Whatever belongings you want to retrieve," Albus intervened, "we will send someone to get them. For now, you matter more than your possessions."

"I am going back," he stubbornly insisted.

"I am sorry, Hannibal. But it is not possible."

          Albus stood up, put muggle money on the table for the meal they didn’t even order, and gestured to the boys to follow him. Kingsley walked behind them, carefully watching their back, explaining their situation while doing so.

"The Ministry keeps a record of every Apparition since June. Scrimgeour wishes to use it to keep an eye on suspected Death Eaters, but since the Ministry is riddled by You-Know-Who's spies, it mostly allows Death Eaters to keep an eye on us.

          "Professor Dumbledore is able to keep his presence undetected, if he so wishes. But there is still the Trace on you Harry. It will tell the Ministry of your exact position the second he, or anyone, performs magic near you. Thankfully, the Burrow having been turned unplotteable a few weeks ago, apparating you there won't give away your position. However, you must both be fully aware that you are watched. Closely so."

"So the Ministry really is on Voldemort's side," Harry mumbled.

"No, it isn't," Kingsley nuanced. "Rufus Scrimgeour has his flaws, but he stands against the dark arts. However, a lot of people work for the Ministry. And not all of them are on our side. In that kind of situation, one enemy is enough to make a danger out of an entire organization."

          They had left the restaurant and were now in the empty alley behind it, out of sight and of care of their muggle neighbours.

"Harry," Dumbledore called, "take my arm and hold it well. Hannibal, you have done that before, Kingsley will take you."

          The two boys followed the instruction and Albus disapperated at once, taking Harry with him. For a moment, the shapes and colors of the world blurred and danced together, before settling for a completely new decor, a blink later.

          They were in the small court in front of the Burrow, and, more than expected, they were being welcomed despite the very late hour. Severus hadn't had the time to leave yet, and was still there, in the company of Arthur Weasley who had been waiting to know if he had to contact the Dursleys or not.

          A snap behind him informed Albus that Kingsley had apparated and the old man walked to the two other wizards.

"Everything is good now, Arthur. Kingsley will make sure that the Dursleys remain safe. You won't be needed tonight. However, if you could make sure our two guests get the rest they need. It has been a very long day."

"I only see one guest," Severus' cold voice interrupted.

          Albus frowned and turned around. Harry was here, a few feet behind him, trying his best to avoid any eye contact with his Potion teacher. Behind him, Kingsley stood, as Albus’ hearing had told him so. Yet, Severus was right. Only one guest had made it.

          Hannibal was nowhere to be seen.

          Kingsley detailed Severus for a second, without understanding. Then his eyes went to Harry, and only after noticing that the boy was here did they travel to the empty space on his right. They widened in shock and genuine incomprehension.

"Where is he?" he asked, as if he was not supposed to be the one with the answer.

"He didn't grab your arm?" Arthur asked, suddenly worried.

          They all had the same thought in mind. Apparition accidents were always gruesome and fatal. Yet, Albus knew Kingsley was one of the best wizards in the Order. Not one to fail at something like Apparition.

"Of course, he did," Kingsley said, "he is still..."

          He stopped in the middle of his own sentence. He had raised his arm, as to show them something, and was only now noticing the strange object circling his forearm.

          In three long steps, Albus was by Kingsley's side and was able to take a closer look at the grey restraint. The Headmaster first thought it was circular, a cuff of sorts, but, with a closer inspection, he was able to tell it had been roughly shaped as a hand, five fingers and a palm gripping Kingsley's forearm. It was made of stone, the clear and speckled one the wall of the alley they had just left was made off.

          A decoy.

"Kingsley, do not worry about it. Go on with what we said. Harry, go inside. Your friends, Mr Weasley and Miss Granger, are already here. Mr Graham shouldn't take too long. I am going to retrieve Mr Lecter."

          He didn't wait around to see his orders being followed. In a blink, he was gone.

          Back to the alley they had just left, he discovered it to be completely empty. He disappearated again. He knew exactly where Hannibal was.

          Another blink later, he was in front of the Dursleys' house. The neighbourhood was bathing in darkness, only lit up by a few streetlights. The number 4 on the street was nowhere near any of them. Yet, one window was shining brightly, from the light coming out of it.

          Albus entered the house.

          He had never passed that threshold. The last time he had come here, it had been to carry Harry to the door. Not once had he even seen it open. Yet, he somehow knew the house intimately. Its rooms, its pictures, its decor. As if it had been told to him in such a detailed way that he had begun to remember.

          And that was how he knew something had changed. Something in its fabric, or maybe in the air filling the rooms. Something was lacking. Maybe because he had only seen this house through the prism of Petunia Dursley, the presence around which he had built his magic. And now that Petunia was gone, so was the core of the house for him.

          Pushing his pondering to a relegated part of his mind, Albus climbed up the stairs and knocked on the door leading to the only lit up window. Even without an answer, he opened it after a second.

          He knew at once that the room had been shared by Harry and Hannibal. It seemed split in two, like drawn to opposite sides by dissimilar forces.

          On the right half, Albus could see red and golden flags on the wall, the ones used by the students to cheer for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. A wide opened suitcase by the bed, that had never been truly unpacked. A collection of small objects tossed aside on the bedside table, from an alarm clock to a box of tissues, without mentioning a wand, a deck of cards, an old moving picture and a half-eaten biscuit.

          The other half was remarkable for its emptiness. Or more exactly, for its profound lack of personality, disguised behind rigorous tidiness. Nothing on the walls, nothing on the bed, the only objects visible were for strictly prosaic needs and appeared to Albus to be decoys – again – to distract from the fact that that part of the bedroom was not really inhabited. A unique watch on the bedside table - not even Robertus Lecter's old one that he had offered to his nephew; three sets of suit in the closet, even though anyone knowing Hannibal was well aware that he had in his possession many more clothes; less than ten books on the desk, all of them school books, despite the fact that it had never been the boy's favourite reading material.

          Hannibal had never planned to stay here, and therefore had never invested the place.

          The only true personal object, at least that Albus could see, was a brown box of precious wood, currently held by Hannibal himself, as he was sitting on his bed. Slowly, he was caressing its cover with the tip of his fingers, following the traces of a carving Albus couldn't see from where he was.

          The old man knew exactly what was inside.

          He had spent a lot of time with Will Graham during the past month. The boy had been frequently moved around, and Albus was always the one personally overseeing his protection. The Empath was simply too precious to them, and too exposed to Voldemort for Albus to trust anyone but himself with his safety. He had seen Will write all these letters and, though he had not asked, he had guessed for whom they were.

          Albus didn't believe Hannibal would toss his boyfriend's letters in his suitcase. They could only be in the box he was now holding so preciously.

          Slowly as to not startle him - though he guessed Hannibal had already heard him - Albus walked to the left side of the room and carefully sat on the bed, next to its owner.

          From here, he could contemplate the symbols carved on the box. It was basic alchemical symbols, embellished by an artistic take on their shape and positioning. The stag, symbol of the sulphur, and the unicorn, symbol of the mercury, together forming the spirit inside every matter, were facing each other, crowned with the sun.

          The arrangement of the three symbols didn't have any meaning. It wasn't an alchemical equation or the description of a reaction. It was... a still-life, if anything. Yet, it seemed to mean a great deal for Hannibal.

"I would have brought it back to you, Hannibal. Was it really worth the stunt you pulled?"

"My access to this box does not depend on your charitable will, Professor Dumbledore."

          His voice had been sharp, bitter, without the usual lie of casualness. They were past masks, it seemed. Albus couldn't help but see it as a worrying sign.

          Well, since they were past them...

"What did you do to Petunia Dursley, Hannibal?"

          He kept any sound of accusation out of his voice, favouring conciliation and readiness to listen. Hannibal's bitterness was already coming from a deeper place than Albus could understand, and he needed to be careful not to deal any new damage. At least, none that he didn't mean.

"I didn't touch her," Hannibal simply said.

"You never have to."

"What do you think I could have done to her?" the boy asked, finally taking his eyes off the box to meet Albus'. "More important. If I have indeed done something, how would that make you feel?"

          Albus took a couple of seconds to think about what kind of answer he should be giving. He had spent a year being confrontational with the boy. Trying his best to force him to see things from a less twisted point of view. He had sensed the danger coming from the student and had known that power would be a key weapon between them. But maybe he had been wrong. Maybe power plays were not the true hill on which to die.

          Maybe, the truth about Hannibal Lecter lied somewhere in his tortuosity. And Albus needed to dwell into it to finally guess the shape of the boy.

"It would make me feel worried," he ultimately answered truthfully.

"For who?" Hannibal asked, skilfully hiding his surprise at having received a genuine answer.

"For you. Among many others."

          Hannibal's smile was not victorious, like the last time he had been able to snatch truths from the Headmaster. It was rawer.

"How unfortunate for you."

"What is unfortunate exactly?"

"Your morality. I know a great deal about morality. Wrought mine in forges hotter than the sixth circle of hell, where heresy is entombed in flames. It stands as strong and as righteous as yours. Yet... Yours finds comfort in its own suffering. You got yourself twisted around your own core, Professor, and you are now unable to see ahead or around."

          Albus listened to the words with attention, trying to follow them back to Hannibal's perspective.

"I think I see more than you give me credit for."

"Do you, now?"

          Hannibal's hand had stopped to draw the shape of the wooden picture and he had settled his palm on the sun.

"You were so relieved to see me alive," he said. "When I woke up, in the Ministry. The alleviation in your eyes. Yet you had already begun to guess the shape of me. You weakly favour long term headache over short term guilt."

"My guilt is never short term."

          Hannibal's eyes fell on the box once again, and, finally, he stood up. With a couple of steps, he arrived at the cupboard against which his empty bag was neatly put. He picked it up and carefully placed the box at the bottom of it.

          Albus detailed him cautiously, his eyes following his every gesture.

"Yours is?"

          Hannibal kept his eyes on his bag, and let the silence settle for a second before answering.

"Short term? No. In order to have a term, it needs a beginning."

"You don't experience guilt?"

"What is there to be guilty about?"

          Once again, Albus made sure to keep any accusation away from his tone.

"Petunia Dursley. Francis Dolarhyde. There is nothing about those two situations that made you regret some actions?"

          Hannibal's eyes grew distant for a while, as if he was listing in his head each of his many – or maybe few – actions.

"There is nothing about any of them that could be a viable source for guilt. I didn't do anything worthy of self-flagellation."

"We all have some form of guilt. If not about that, then about something else."

"Does Voldemort experience some form of guilt?"

"Do you compare yourself to Voldemort?"

"You do."

"I don't. You have similarities. In terms of powers. Maybe even some life situations. But it is all superficial. You are much more complex than he has ever been able to become."

"If this is your idea of a compliment..."

"You are also more placid. Never will you be able to act on his scale."

"Therefore I am less worthy of counteraction than him?"

"Unlike him, you are at the beginning of your potential, Hannibal. I don't know yet who you will become. And you don't either."

          Hannibal received that sentence with neutrality. But not his usual one, meant to hide his many thoughts. It was a contemplative one. He wanted to ponder on those words first.

"Not everyone experiences guilt," he finally said, to answer their former conversation. "Some dwell in misplaced ones, some step out of righteous ones."

"And you?"

"Neither. I ate away my guilt, the same way your guilt is eating away at you."

"Which means there was guilt at some point. About what, Hannibal?"

          While asking the question, Albus was certain he wouldn't have any answer to it. He had grown accustomed to the boy's silences and deceptive words. Yet, to his greatest surprise, he got one. Maybe because he had chosen to listen instead of fighting. Or maybe because Will's absence had made Hannibal not quite himself. He didn't know for sure, but he got an answer.

"About lives. As it is often the case. Some present when they should have been absent. Some gone when they should have stayed. The same as everyone else. Only I outgrown the regrets. When I believe you did not."

          The old Headmaster sensed his mind sharpen at once, as it was met with something in demand of his whole attention.

          Albus wasn't certain, but he suspected that Hannibal could be referencing to his family. The lives gone when they should have stayed. Maybe he was talking about Luna Lovegood or Robertus Lecter. But something in his choice of words and tone, something more distant in his eyes, was painting a much older tableau.

          In nearly a year, not once Hannibal had truly mentioned his missing, presumed dead family.

"Time is deemed to be such a powerful entity," Albus said both to Hannibal and himself. "Yet, it is so powerless against many wounds."

"Time has the power you give it. Every wound can heal, if one is to lick it clean and let it breathe."

"Have you healed?"

"They say blood is thicker than water. They omit that skin is even more so. Nothing weakens mine. Not even grieves."

"You have chosen another loyalty than the one you had for your family. A stronger one."

          Hannibal's eyes tinted themselves in caution, awaiting Dumbledore's next word with all the readiness of a fighter.

"Does Will's absence cut deeper than that thick skin can withstand?"

"It does not. For Will's absence is not a viable reality. The world is doomed to righten itself at some point. See for yourself. Will was gone, and the World took back Petunia to undo that terrible wrong."

          Was it a confession? Albus was plainly aware that Hannibal had more than a hand in the death of Petunia Dursley, but Hannibal admitting it was something else altogether. Yet another worrying sign.

"However," Hannibal interrupted the silent thoughts, "may I ask you a question, Professor Dumbledore?"

"You may."

"Why do I smell poisonous magic and putrid flesh on you?"

          Albus remained still, his eyes unwavering from Hannibal's shining ones.

"You are holding death in your right hand, Professor. It reeks of it."

          Slowly, Albus raised his hand, taking it out from the secrecy of his sleeve. The black and sick flesh now bared.

          Hannibal walked to him and, carefully, with a gentleness he didn't truly have, he took Albus' hand between his own, studying it closely, his professional gaze detailing it with caution.

          After a second, his fingers naturally brushed over Albus' wrist, where Severus' magic was slowing down the growing disease.

"Praiseworthy," Hannibal commented, "but I can do much better."

"Thank you for your solicitude, Hannibal. But I don't think I will need your help on that."

          Hannibal's eyes went back to the Headmaster, while his hands stayed where they were.

"Why is that? You truly believe you could have access to a better Healer than me? Or are you worried that I may spread the infection to healthy parts of you."

"I am not worried," Albus simply stated.

          Not about that, at least.

          Hannibal's eyes shone even brighter. Gone was his bitterness, and his usual enjoyment was back on his victorious face.

"Are you pulling a Petunia on us, Professor Dumbledore?" he asked with great interest.

"I am not."

          Albus took back his hand from Hannibal's and stood up.

"Will should have arrived by now. You could be by his side, instead of being by mine."

          Albus knew it was not a matter with which Hannibal would play around. He straightened up at once.

"I will be on my way, then. Unless you feel the need to escort me."

"I don't. I know you won't wander off this time. I will see you soon, Hannibal."

          Hannibal nodded and disappareted in a whipping sound, leaving Albus alone in the room.

          While he was there, he decided it wouldn't cost him much to send the boys' belongings to the Burrow, so that he wouldn't have to mission someone else to do it.

          With a flick of his wand, he gathered the objects dispersed around the room, sending them to their respective suitcases.

          However, when one of Hannibal's few books flew to its place, a piece of paper fell out of it and slowly waltzed to the floor, sliding in a soft hiss between Albus' feet. The old Headmaster bent down to pick it up.

          It was nothing that he couldn't have foreseen. He knew of the boy's skill for arts.

          The piece of paper showed a precise drawing in charcoal, representing Will, haloed in light, regally sitting on a throne of antlers, a peaceful lamb sleeping on his knees.

          Albus detailed the drawing.

          He could have had a thought about the impeccable technique, the heavy imagery or the many references.

          But nothing so brilliant crossed Albus' mind.

          There was only one thought he was able to create. Only one realization that struck him.

          In this image, created from Hannibal's perspective, Will Graham was just as magnificent as Gellert Grindelwald had been the first time Albus had laid eyes upon him.

          He knew that kind of vision all too well.

          Whatever Hannibal Lecter's actions were going to be in the future, Albus was perfectly aware they would be dictated by nothing else than Will Graham's whims.

          Maybe there was still a chance.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 2

Survivors’ Club Meeting

          The smoke was lazily rising in front of Will Graham's eyes, its grey and white volutes painting strange visions in suspension in the air.

          Will had read a lot about interpreting smoke during the past few weeks, as he didn’t have much else to do. He knew the theory of it and how the mysteries of fate could sometimes be unveiled through screens of vapor. But these slow dances didn't whisper anything to him. To his defence, he didn't think the great seers of humanity had read their future in the smoke rising from mashed potatoes and ground beef.

          Will's eyes fell from the white volutes to the plate in front of him. It wasn't the right meat to read his fate.

"You're not eating?"

          Will didn't even look at Mrs Weasley as he answered:

"No. I am waiting for him."

"I see," the woman said with a fond smile that Will didn't need to see to guess.

          She picked up Harry's empty plate that he had left behind at her demand when he had gone to bed, and once she had left the room, Will remained alone with his thoughts.

          When McGonagall had come to fetch him, he hadn't asked any questions. Somehow, he just knew. He had felt a burn in his gut, as if a tensioned wire had ruptured and hit him at full speed. And though he couldn't guess the exact reason, he knew it was related to Hannibal. It always was, in one way or another.

          When he had seen Harry, after being urged to this new hiding place, he had guessed that Hannibal had been the perpetrator and not the sufferer. Which had quietened his fear and ignited his vexation.

          It was only when Harry had told him about the sudden passing of his aunt that Will had fully understood the exact roots and ramifications of the situation.

          Damn him.

          Sudden noises coming from the next room caught his attention, but Will didn't move at all, his eyes still on the cooling meat, his hands resting flatly against the wood of the table.

          He then heard voices greeting each other and, a second later, steps echoed in the hallway and a motion in the periphery of his sight told him that someone was now standing in the frame of the door.

"Look who's with us," Molly Weasley cheerfully exclaimed from behind the new silhouette.

          Will didn't look. He didn't need to. He knew what there was to see there.

"Thank you, Mrs Weasley. For everything. Now please, don't let us keep you away from your bed. We have abused your time and kindness enough."

          Hannibal's voice had always been a rather low one, for as long as Will had known him. Even more so two years ago, when they were surrounded by boys who still had their childhood's sounds. But even considering that fact, Will felt like there was something deeper than usual in his lover's voice. Deeper and truer. As if it had dropped the last tone that was still not quite his.

"Oh, no, don't worry, I..."

          Mrs Weasley was quickly interrupted.

"I insist. There is no other plan than to get some sleep after eating anyway. We are going to be perfectly fine."

"Well... If you're certain..."

"That I am."

"I will leave you two to it, then... Don't bother with the empty plates once you're done. I'll handle them tomorrow."

"Thank you."

          From her steps alone, Will was able to guess that Mrs Weasley had left the kitchen, certainly to get to her room. Unlike Hannibal, who walked toward Will and sat across from him, where another plate had been put aside earlier that night.

          Finally, the two boys got to meet eyes.

          Will skilfully hid his surprise, preventing it from distracting him from his rightful annoyance.

          Hannibal had changed more drastically over a month then he had in the two years Will had known him.

          He had continued to grow. Unlike Ron who had the lanky shape of a boy who had grown irreversibly too tall, too quickly, Hannibal had the slender silhouette of an adult who had reached their rightful stature. When Ron's height highlighted his youth, Hannibal's seemed to be a promise of the man he was beginning to be.

          He had lost in barely a month all the remaining roundness and softness of his mockery of a childhood, leaving his face harsh and worrying, his features exacerbated by the tightness of his skin.

          Will didn't mind so much. Hannibal had been a beautiful boy, but he was on the verge of becoming an alluring man. Such specificities didn't change Will's opinion about his lover, and he had found him 'harsh' and 'worrying' at first sight anyway. Some of the lost fat was not entirely due to natural growth, but Will didn't dwell on it, knowing full well that meat would be put back on their plate soon enough.

          The only thing truly bothersome was how quickly these changes had occurred and their childhood had begun to fade, but that was not enough to take Will's mind off what really needed his attention.

"What have you done?"

          Hannibal was standing perfectly straight on his chair, his shoulders relaxed and his gaze clear. Yet, Will could see the cogs of his mind turning round and round inside his misty skull.

          Hannibal was dealing with two different struggles, Will could tell. The disappointment of his expectations – he had certainly pictured a very different welcome, more loving, more passionate – and the attempt at reading his lover's mind - which he often failed to do, for his greatest pleasure.

"I have done what you should have seen coming," he finally decided to answer.

"So, it was a way to get back at me? For what exactly?"

"It was not."

"The hell, it wasn't! I..."

          Will cut himself in the middle of his own sentence. He needed to keep his mind clear and his annoyance in check. He couldn't afford any kind of blindness when dealing with Hannibal. Love and anger were as fatal a flaw, in these situations.

"You spent the whole year plotting around me," he resumed in a calmer, quieter tone. "You manipulated and hid. So that you could bring me exactly to the place you wanted me to be. I did that for you. I went where you wanted and did the exact thing you wanted me to do. This whole protection was your duplicitous idea. And you wasted it all on a whim? What's your endgame here, except fucking with me?"

"Nothing is wasted, Will," Hannibal said.

          Though he kept his feelings as concealed as Will's, the Empath could tell he was vexed by the accusation.

"The protection you gifted to me is still as efficient as the day you created it. Voldemort is a bearer of Lily Potter’s blood. I am still out of his reach, thanks to you."

"But Lily's sister..."

"... was just needed to keep the house safe. It is not your magic that I sabotaged, it is the house. Now, can you contemplate your own faults once you will be done with the lack of mines?"

          Will wasn't certain there was much to say on his part. He had tried his best to make it more bearable for Hannibal, writing to him every single evening, detailing his every day and every thought, counting down the minutes that still separated them from their reunion.

          He didn't see what he could have done more. Though Hannibal seemed to have a precise idea on that, a precise idea that he didn’t shy away from sharing.

"I could be just as vexed, Will," he said, his eyes shining with all the brightness of a threat. "You saw an obstacle between us and you did not strike it down at once."

"I thought you knew better than to consider time as a threat."

"It is not about time," Hannibal breathed at once, in a lowered tone that was his way of exclamation. "When Professor Dumbledore mentioned that it was only two months, not so long ago, I felt contempt toward him. I mocked his blindness. Don't disappoint me with yours."

          Hannibal stood up, his untouched plate abandoned, his back now on Will to deprive him of eye contact.

          Thus, it was while detailing the window and the dark night behind it that he continued, his voice just as low and direct as if he was directly facing his interlocutor.

"It is not about time. And it is not about distance. It is about us not being where we belong. The mere core principle of separation is an offense to us. We are a two-headed entity. Entity, Will. Singular form. Separation is a luxury we are not to fool ourselves into believing in. Professor Dumbledore put Petunia Dursley as a wall between us. I struck her down and buried her, to leave a perfect plain, worthy stage for our reunion. The fact that you don't feel as invested in it and that it doesn't outrage you worries me, Will. Deeply."

"I do, but I'm also able to imagine far worse. Summer vacation is one thing, but Death can do us part too, you know. Much more painfully and unfairly."

          Hannibal turned around at that, his eyes finding Will's right away, his gaze as clear as his word.

"No," he simply stated. "As a matter of fact, Death cannot."

          It was the kind of sentence that Will never knew if their figuration didn't hide a literality among their layers.

"I will strike down as many walls as will be built between us," Hannibal resumed, the steadiness of his tone telling of the obviousness of his words. "If you end up being one of them, then I will kill us both without a second thought. For the sake of us."

          Will kept his breathing even and controlled. Casual death threats were just another Tuesday for Hannibal. Not that he didn't mean them. There was never a word coming out of that mouth that Will didn't take seriously. But he couldn't afford to dwell on each of them. He needed to pick and choose his worries carefully.

"Come here," he simply said, extending his hand in his friend's direction.

          Hannibal didn't move for a second, examining Will and his hand with a clinical curiosity. Then, slowly, he made his way toward them, stopping when he was standing only a foot away.

          Will didn't say anything else, keeping his hand extended in silence and, finally, Hannibal put his palm against it, their fingers intertwining and touching each other for the first time since King's Cross.

          No matter the situation, it was nice to see and touch him again, Will thought. Once again, Hannibal's evil against the world had brought them some good for themselves. It was the recurring theme of their story.

          For nearly a full minute, they didn't share a word and didn't move, both their pairs of eyes fixed on their embraced hands, slowly taking in the end of their separation. Then, after a while, Hannibal carefully knelt in front of his lover and rested his exhausted forehead on the welcoming lap. Naturally, Will's hand found his hair and caressed it softly.

          The idea of separation had cut deep into Hannibal's flesh, and maybe Will had been careless about it. He was fully aware that Hannibal didn't mind death in the slightest, and that security was not a prospect he favoured above love. However, he had not thought that Hannibal would willingly destroy one of the creations he had himself asked Will to build.

          It was something that Will needed to keep in mind at all times. As the everyday witness of Hannibal's omnipotence, he could easily forget that Hannibal could just as well be profoundly self-sabotaging. And since Hannibal's self was now also Will's self, it was not something he could safely ignore or dismiss anymore.

"I didn't miss you, Hannibal," Will whispered, continuing his soothing caresses, "because there was nothing to miss. I didn't feel any separation. You have marked your imprint so deeply in my mind that there isn't any thought there that doesn't bear your weight. I never really feel like you're away."

          Hannibal didn't answer, his eyes closed and his breathing deep.

"At night," Will remembered with a tender softness, "I would conjure the magic of your Horcrux. Not do anything with it. Just sensing its warmth around me. Felt exactly like the real deal. Did you do that too?"

          Hannibal shook his head negatively. Maybe it would have changed a lot if he had done it. Maybe it wouldn't have. Will couldn't make his mind about whether the wound was on his lover's heart or on his ego.

"What have you done exactly? To Lily's sister. I'm curious."

          And he genuinely was. They were past grievances. Disapprobation had little to no effect on Hannibal. Thus, when all was said and done, there was nothing left for Will to feel but curiosity.

"She killed herself," Hannibal whispered, without opening his eyes. "I simply offered a helping hand."

"What you did to the Sorting Hat..."

"Not as literally. I simply listened to her. And answered some of her questions."

"You answered the truth?"

"I answered a truth."

          Will's hand ventured to the beginning of Hannibal's back, between his shoulder blades, which he massaged for a moment.

"What about Dumbledore?"

"What about him?"

"Does he know?"

"Yes."

"Everything?"

"No."

"What then?"

          Hannibal sighted deeply. He didn't want to waste their precious intimacy with the thought of the Professor. But he indulged Will nonetheless. He had to after what he had just done.

"He knows Petunia Dursley wouldn't have killed herself if she hadn't met me. He noticed how convenient her death was to me. He is slowly realizing that I am beyond saving. Or, more exactly, that I am beyond his comprehension. He doesn't know just how right he is."

          That wasn't too bad. Dumbledore's suspicion mainly focused on Hannibal, and Will felt he could certainly play a double game during the next years, pretending to be the one from which salvation could come. He simply needed to be as irreproachable than Hannibal was reproachable. He could be the balancing force to Hannibal's sabotaging.

          Just like Hannibal had been his since the beginning.

          Will slowly opened an eye before closing it at once. The light in the room was much brighter than he had expected and he didn't have the faith to deal with it right now.

          He felt as if he had slept several days in a row, yet was still sensing exhaustion weighing down his bones, aging them to leave him stiff and ankylosed.

          It took him an indecent amount of time to remember where he was. He had spent most of the past month between an empty Hogwarts and whatever hideout Dumbledore deemed to be the safest at the time, and he was used to waking up in different beds to different sights. The only recurrent occurrence was the wet feeling of Fang's drool slowly dripping on his hand and the soft ruffles of Orphy's feathers above his head. This time, neither that familiar feeling nor that familiar sound were there to accompany his awakening.

          Instead, to replace them both, a weight on his shoulder, numbing his whole arm.

          Deciding to be worthy of his schoolhouse and show some bravery, Will opened his eyes to see Hannibal's head resting peacefully against him, still lost to unconsciousness.

          All the memories of the day before rushed on the front of his mind. The bad burn in his gut, McGonagall fetching him late at night to rush him to another hiding place, Harry telling him about the fate of Lily's sister, and his discussion with Hannibal.

          They were now both at the Weasleys', a weird and twisted five-stories high house, named The Burrow. They had chosen a room for themselves, which must have belonged to one of Ron's brothers and was reading "Percy" on the door, though the place didn't seem to have welcomed anyone in quite some time. Will was about sure that the name had been mentioned once to him before, but he could hardly replace it, let alone care about it. A room was a room, this one was nice enough.

          Will slowly took a look around. The room didn't seem the same under the daylight. The few red and yellow decorations on the wall were telling of an owner having belonged to Gryffindor, and the many advanced books about law and politics were betraying the points of interest of that Percy brother.

          There was an old perch on the sill of the window, but Orphy was not on it. And Fang was nowhere to be seen. Will remembered Hannibal taking them both out the night before, refusing to share the room with them. Will hadn't argued. If Hannibal had been woken up by someone drooling on him - someone other than his soulmate, that is - then The Burrow would have become a charming mortuary in a matter of minutes. Though Orphy was kept safe by his snobbiness and general disdain for the world, it was better for the kind and loving Fang to stay away from Lecter.

          Will tried to slowly move his arm around, to get some sensation back into his limb, but the gesture woke Hannibal up. His friend opened his eyes, carefully looked around, before closing them again and returning to Will's shoulder.

"Hi," Will yawned.

"Hello," Hannibal automatically answered, though he still sounded half asleep.

          With his free hand, Will reached for Hannibal's pocket watch that had been left on the bedside table and that was closer than his own. It was past ten in the morning and Will believed he would have slept up until noon if the daylight hadn't woken him up.

"It's half past ten," Will stated after putting back the watch and letting his hands rest on Hannibal's back. "You think we have to get up and see what the others are up to?"

"I think there is nothing we have to do."

          Hannibal looked up to him and Will tilted his head to kiss him but, a second before their lips touched, footsteps then voices were heard coming from the other side of the door.

"Ron, let them be," a voice whispered. "Your mum told us they need some sleep."

"They arrived with Harry, didn't they?" a second voice said, more loudly than the first one. "Harry, you had enough sleep, didn't you?"

"They didn't," a third voice answered. "I met Will briefly yesterday, but he waited for Hannibal. So, I left before him."

"Waited for Hannibal?" the second voice repeated. "I don't get it. He wasn't already with you? Why did you get separated?"

"You'll have this answer if we talk to them."

          Hannibal's and Will's eyes met, both of them knowing full well what was about to happen... Then someone knocked on the door loud enough to have woken up any sleeping occupant.

          Hannibal let his head fall back on Will's shoulder with a sigh.

"We're awake," Will said loudly enough to be heard and, a second later, the door opened on Ron, Hermione and Harry.

"Hi!" Ron exclaimed as he unapologetically entered the room to let himself fall on the chair near the desk. "What's'up?"

          Hannibal reluctantly left Will's embrace to sit up and face the newcomers, and Will did the same, resting his back against the wall at the head of the bed.

          The other two entered the room too. Ron having taken the only chair in the room, Harry went to sit on the part of the bed his two friends were not occupying anymore, and Hermione settled for the windowsill.

"Harry told us what happened," Hermione said in a sober tone. "With his aunt. I don't know if you were close after the time you have spent together, Hannibal. But if you were, I am truly sorry."

"Thank you, Hermione. I appreciate the solicitude. That sudden loss may have brought thwarted feelings, but it left us all with a matching sense of shock. At least, we have each other."

          Will looked at Harry. His eyes on his hands, he had not reacted to Hannibal's words, and no defined thought was shining through his usually so telling eyes. The Empath couldn't quite tell what Harry's feelings about all that were. Probably because Harry himself didn't know that.

"Did you..." Hermione stopped to think a second before starting again. "Do you know why?... I mean why she did... what she did."

"You never know what demons are plaguing a mind." Hannibal simply said.

          All kept silent for a second, as if to welcome those deeply thoughtful and wise words.

"That being said," Hannibal finally concluded while getting up and picking his wand from the bedside table, "if you will excuse me."

"Where are you going?" Ron asked. “We’ve come to talk with you two.”

"I don't usually walk around in nightclothes at hours so distant from night. I will be back in a moment."

          He pointed his wand in front of him, and only then did Will notice that Hannibal’s suitcase was already in the room, docilely waiting under the desk.

          The baggage opened quietly, and a black suit cover and a toiletry bag flew out of it to compliantly float behind the wizard who had summoned them.

"Please, don't wait for me," he said as he was making his way to the door. "Will will fill me in on the conversation."

          And he exited the room completely, leaving more space on the bed for Will to stretch his legs. The Empath didn't mind staying in pyjamas until indecent hours of the day. It was even a nasty pleasure of his.

"So you arrived last night too?" Hermione asked Will in the silence that followed Hannibal's departure.

"Yeah."

"Where were you before that?" Ron asked. "With Sirius? Back to Grimmauld Place"

"No. It was Dumbledore's plan at first, but he changed his mind. Didn't tell me why."

"So where were you?"

"Here and there. I moved a lot. I think they didn't want me to stay too long at the same place."

"They really went all out to protect you," Ron thought to himself. "Though I wonder why. It's not like You-Know-Who has more reasons to go after you than to go after me or Hermione."

          Will exchanged a look with Harry.

          So, Ron and Hermione hadn't been told anything about what exactly had happened after the Department of Mystery, and the discussion they had had in Dumbledore’s office? Will wasn't too surprised. After all, during the aftermath of it, Harry had been very distant, deciding to isolate himself rather than sticking with his friends. And Hermione and Ron had spent most of their time at the Hospital Wing, under Hannibal's care, with barely any visit at all. And Will could sense that, even if he had had the opportunity, Harry wouldn't have found it easy to talk to his friends. Because he, himself, didn't understand the whole picture, but also because the parts of the picture he could get were intimately intricate with a stabbing sense of guilt.

          Sympathetic toward the boy sitting next to him on the bed, Will decided to take some of his burden off by telling parts of the truth.

"Actually, Voldemort may be a bit more motivated. Dumbledore asked me to help him in your fight against him. And it is one of Voldemort’s fears. That my Empathy could be used against him."

"How so?" Ron asked right away.

          Will simply shrugged. He sure wasn't going to tell them about the Horcruxes. Not before Harry was told about them. It certainly wouldn’t be fair, and would bring up the question of how he was aware of it in the first place.

"Dumbledore didn't tell us everything, but he has a plan in mind, and I fit into it. Somehow."

"In June," Harry filled in, "he said Voldemort had some kind of... I don't know... secret ability? A spell or something. That was keeping him alive and impossible to kill. That was why he was able to come back after all these years when he was thought to be dead. Apparently, we need to get rid of that thing before going after him."

"And how does Will fit in that situation?" Hermione asked with the same frown she always had when faced with a problem she couldn't solve.

"I could be able to sense stuff related to it, according to him," Will told them. "In some ways. Apparently, I can help Harry and Dumbledore define it. That’s what Dumbledore said, anyway."

          It wasn’t absolutely true, but it wasn’t an absolute lie either. Hermione remained silent for a second. Her eyes, darker and heavier than Will had remembered, travelled from him to Harry.

"You said Harry and Dumbledore," she pointed out. "You didn't say the Order... Do you... What do you mean?"

"Dumbledore said he would take us with him," Harry finally announced. "He said he is going to move against Voldemort and he asked for our help."

"Our?"

"Mine. Will's. Hannibal's."

          Ron and Hermione detailed them with wide eyes, a mixture of surprise and slowly rising fear emanating from them, but Will firmly kept them at bay.

"That means you... You're going to fight Voldemort?" Ron repeated, unsure if he wanted to trust his own words. "I mean for real, this time? You're going after him? Dumbledore's going to take you with him?"

"He said so, at least" Harry nodded.

"What about us?"

"You are not conc..."

"Don't you dare to finish that sentence, Harry."

          It was Hermione who had interrupted him, her voice glacial and bitter. When he looked at her, Will received her anger like a punch in the gut. It was dark yet vivid, shining with pain and resentment, and a guilt greater than Harry's. Never before had Will seen Hermione as angry as that half sentence had made her.

          Though he didn't feel it as keenly as Will, Harry was also surprised by her cold outburst and he remained at a loss for a second, unable to find the words.

          A strange silence followed, filled with uncertainty as no one knew what to say exactly. Will even began to believe that the two other boys may be clueless and unaware of the reason behind Hermione's harsh answer. If that was really the case, Will thought they were the ones to blame. They really didn't need exacerbated Empathy to understand the current situation.

          Finally, it was Hannibal who put an end to that awkwardness, by walking back into the room, apparently unmoved by the strange atmosphere that welcomed him.

          Now all dressed and refreshed, Hannibal put back the bag and the empty suit cover on his suitcase before looking around him.

"Sorry, did I interrupt any important silence?"

          He was wearing a bright purple shirt with darker flowery patterns embroidered on the cuffs and collar. Above it, an old-pink waistcoat was arrogantly existing, the back panel of which was repeating the same motives as the shirt. That was a weird line of thought, but Will pondered that, if the ambiance in the room right now could have an exact opposite, and if that exact opposite could wear clothes, it would wear nothing more fitting than Hannibal’s outfit of the day. Not that Will was disapproving. Hannibal could own purple and pink like no one else.

          Ron, certainly following other thoughts than Will’s bizarre ones, used that distraction to bring everyone to a new topic of conversation.

"Uh... You have a new wand? Took you some time."

"Yes indeed. I needed to find the right fit."

"What is it?" he asked though it was obvious his care for the question was half pretended. "Mine's unicorn tail hair. I like it well enough. Harry's phoenix feather, right Harry?"

"Yes," Harry meekly said, his eyes still drifting toward Hermione.

"What's yours?" Ron asked again.

          Will had hoped Ron would have forgotten his question in his hurry to fill the silence. He didn't see how 'bones and apocalyptic prophecy' could be a good answer to any question.

          But Hannibal, though a reluctant liar, was a talented distractor.

"I am curious what your bet will be," Hannibal said with a challenging smile.

"Unicorn," Ron answered right away. "You're a bit like them."

"I am more of a stag myself, though I do have a fondness for unicorns. And no, it is not unicorn. Try again tomorrow."

"You don't want to tell?" Ron frowned.

"Oh, there are few things I would like more to tell than this one. But I think it is more entertaining for everyone involved to let you guess. Let it just be said that it is a rare core, and you will need some imagination to find it."

"You got it from Ollivander's?" Harry asked. "I thought he only made Phoenix, Unicorn and Dragon."

"Every wandmaker is able to craft outside of their preferences," Hannibal told them. "Not that it matters in that case as I made it myself."

"What?" Hermione finally talked, taken by complete surprise. "Your wand? You made it yourself?"

"I did. Why such a surprise? If Mister Ollivander can do it, so can I."

"Ollivander studied and practiced for years."

"I admit it required some research."

"You made one for Will too?" Harry wondered. "While you were at it."

"I did."

"May I see them?" Hermione asked. "If you don't mind. I'm just very curious about what you did."

"Sadly you can't. Not from up-close. I protected them both against any other hand than our own. I don't like the idea of my art pieces falling into other hands than the ones I crafted them for."

"What would happen if someone were to touch them?" Ron questioned, his eyes shining with admiration, looking at the white wand in Hannibal’s hand with curiosity and apprehension.

"That would be painful..."

"Not as painful as her."

          They all turned around to see the silhouette in the doorframe who had dropped that last sentence like a bombshell accompanying a resonating entrance.

          Ginny walked in the room, a moody frown on her face as she crossed it to join Hermione with quick large steps and let herself fall on the windowsill by her friend’s side.

          The last time Will had seen her, Ginny had been lying in a pool of her own blood, a breath away from death.

          She seemed to have made a swift recovery.

"I swear, I can't with her!"

          Then, realizing there was new people around her, she added without losing her frown:

"Hi, guys."

"Hi, Ginny," Harry answered from the bed. "Who are you talking about?"

"You haven't seen her yet?"

"Seen who?"

"Harry just woke up," Hermione told Ginny. "We wanted to say hi to everyone before heading down."

"I'd advise you against it," Ginny shook her head. "The heading down part. Not right now at least. I left her to mum so as to not deal with her, but I don't think mum's gonna hold it for long."

"Who are we talking about?" Harry repeated.

          But no one answered his question. Instead, the information was given by a knock on the door that stopped everyone in the track of their conversation.

"This room sure gets quite the frequentation," Hannibal stated as it did indeed begin to feel overcrowded.

          Before anyone really answered the knock, the door opened.

          And Will saw on the other side the single most beautiful human being his eyes had ever lied on.

          With long silvery blonde hair falling to her waist in shiny serene waves, two large deep blue eyes sparkling like sea wonders immortalized in crystal, a face sculpted in marble only troubled by her red lips, there was something unnatural in the blatant perfection of her beauty, as if she belonged more to the realm of tales than of reality.

          Or more prosaically, as if she was out of humanity. Literally.

"Harry! I am so happy to see you here!"

          Her voice was clear and yet soft, though intricate in a pronounced French accent.

          Will only noticed the tray she had in her hands when she put it down on the bed to hug Harry in a warm embrace.

"Uh, hi Fleur," Harry said in an understandably tight and dry voice. "Nice to see you."

          The woman smiled at him, revealing a row of perfectly white and even teeth before looking around. Her eyes brushed over Will but came to a sudden stop at Hannibal.

"Oh," she simply said, surprise and misunderstanding battling on her haughty features.

"Bonjour, Fleur," Hannibal said in the silence that followed.

          The woman's expression lightened up, the surprise remaining but something akin to joyful astonishment also stepping in.

"Tu parles," she said in French, more to herself than to him. "J’ai toujours cru que tu étais muet."

"Je n’étais pas muet," Hannibal answered nonetheless in a matching French, though Will could hear his accent pierce through. "J’étais silencieux."

          The woman detailed him for yet another second before standing up from the bed and walking to Hannibal.

"I am sorry, I am forgetting all the basis of politeness. I am delighted to see you again, Hannibal."

          She leaned forward and the two raised-French foreigners kissed each other's cheeks before stepping back.

"I would have never thought I would see you here, of any places."

          She looked around without adding anything, but Will could understand. It wasn’t the kind of place that seemed likely to welcome someone like Hannibal. Or someone like her, for that matter.

"It seems that improbable paths brought us to each other again."

"You are friends with them? I thought you to be more..."

"You two know each other?" Ginny abruptly interrupted.

          Hannibal frowned at the undistinguished intervention, but the woman looked at her with a smile.

"Yes, we do. Hannibal was a student at Beauxbatons. Albeit not for a long time. We met there. As the president of the student body, I helped him around, the first few days. And we were in the same after school alchemy club. By the way, I have read your paper over this summer. You are every bit the alchemist mind you were already promising to become at that time…"

"You were president of the student body?" Ron repeated in a strangely strangled voice ignoring everything that had followed after that. "Congratulations, it's awesome... I'm prefect too so... It's basically the same you know."

          The woman smiled at him, contrasting with Hannibal's unimpressed and slightly judgmental expression.

"Fleur?" he called after a second of silence to catch back her attention. "If you would allow me, it would be my pleasure to introduce you to the most significant of any others. This is my boyfriend, Will Graham. Will Graham, this is Fleur Delacour."

          Clumsily, nearly falling forward, Will got out of bed to stand awkwardly, only now cursing himself for not having the bright idea to get out of his nightclothes sooner. But Fleur didn't seem to notice it at all. As soon as her eyes fell on him, they lit up with a joy that wasn’t there the first time she had looked at him. This time, however, she clapped her hands under her chin in excitement, offering the brightest of her smiles.

"You have a boyfriend? That's fantastic! I'm so happy to meet you, Will Graham!"

          She rushed to him and kissed his cheeks like she had done for Hannibal. Though, not expecting it, Will only passively received it, his skin burning where the lips had touched it.

"You're from Hogwarts? I don’t remember seeing you there."

"Uh," Will ordered his thoughts, "from Ilvermorny actually..."

"An American," she exclaimed while looking back at Hannibal. "And how did you two meet? I want to know everything!"

"It's uh... It's a very long story."

"It is a good thing that I am staying here for a while then! I will be able to hear it! This house will be filled with love!"

"What do you..."

          Hannibal began but the door opened once again, this time on Mrs Weasley.

"Oh, you brought the tray," she said moodily. "I told you I would do it myself."

"I am perfectly able to do it," Fleur answered without so much of a glance for Mrs Weasley, her eyes still detailing Will with approbation. "Plus, I wanted to see Harry. And I'm glad I did, you didn't tell me Hannibal was here too."

"You know him?"

"Of course, I do. I know all the students that went to Beauxbatons while I was there too."

          Molly frowned at that sentence.

"I thought you came from Ilvermorny..."

"He travelled around, mum!" Ron exclaimed though he still had his eyes only for Fleur.

"A good question would be, what are you doing here, Fleur?" Hannibal asked while blatantly ignoring the vivid yet contradictory emotions around him.

"They didn't tell you?" she said, looking at Ginny and Hermione with reprobation.

"We had other things to talk about," Hermione answered, defensively crossing her arms over her chest.

"Bill and I are getting married!"

          Will felt at once the change in the room. Or maybe the polarization, because it had always been there. Fleur's delight at the thought of the wedding was matched only by Mrs Weasley's and Ginny's disapprobation. Fleur was not in conquered ground at all, quite the contrary. It seemed that she was hated by her future family-in-law.

"Congratulations, Fleur," Hannibal kindly said. "It is very joyful news."

"Indeed it is! Have you ever met Bill?"

"I did not. Though I heard of him. I am looking forward to meeting your chosen one."

"You will love him. Who couldn't? Anyway, I will leave you to your breakfast. It was very nice to see you again, Harry."

"Yeah, uh... Same."

          Fleur turned around, her hair following her motion like a waterfall of liquid silver, but, on her way to the door, she leaned into Hannibal's ear.

"Je suis ravie pour toi. Il est vraiment mignon, tu sais?" she said in a French Will still couldn't understand.

"Oh, je le sais mieux que quiconque."

          Fleur then exited the room without so much as a glance for anyone else.

          Mrs Weasley's face was still as dark and annoyed when she ordered Will, Hannibal and Harry to eat as much as they wanted, before turning around and closing the door behind her.

"Mum hates her," Ginny dropped in the newfound silence and peace that had settled in the room.

"Why that?" Harry asked.

"I don't know. You want me to give you the reasons alphabetically or by order of level of annoyance? In any case, mum totally wants to call off the wedding, though she wouldn’t say."

"How could she call off the wedding?" Ron asked. "Bill would never forgive her."

"She is trying to set him up with Tonks. She always makes sure they spend time together and all. She hopes he will fall for her."

"Yeah, sure," Ron laughed. "As if anyone could fall for Tonks when Fleur is around..."

"Well, Tonks is a much better human being!"

"Is she a human being?" Will asked, sitting back on the bed. "Fleur, I mean."

"Her grandmother was a Veela," Hannibal answered.

"That explains a lot."

          Will shook his head to chase away the remaining picture of the breath-taking apparition. Now that he was aware of what it was all about, it wouldn't be too hard for him to remain more focused the next time they would meet.

"I hope she'll be able to call off the wedding," Ginny sighed. "The sheer horror if she becomes part of the family..."

"Mum will have to accept her at some point."

"As if... She says she just thinks they are rushing into it without taking enough time, but in reality, she just can't bear Phlegm, understandably so."

"Why?" Will asked again, the answer given to Harry earlier not satisfying him.

"Because she is shallow and snobbish and vain. Bill is kind and brilliant and she is basically a cow."

          Will winced internally. Hannibal would not like that at all, he could already tell. He was the only one getting to tell cows apart from humans.

"I like her," Hannibal calmly stated, his face perfectly blank though Will could sense the burn of his disapproval.

"Of course, you do," Ginny shrugged. "You're a man."

          Will winced again, physically this time. That was never a clever thing to say about Hannibal.

"That is incredibly reductive," Hannibal commented, his still eyes on Ginny. "Not all men are attracted to women, not only men are attracted to women. In either case, Veela's spells hardly work on me. Less than they do on you, that is for certain."

          Ginny scoffed it off.

"They don't work on me."

"Don't they, now..."

"I am not blinded by her charms. Like some are."

"If that is true, that would mean your hatred for her comes from a place of reason and I would find it incredibly unfortunate for said Reason."

          Ginny gritted her teeth, unhappy with Hannibal's remark.

"You may believe you're not sensitive to her charm, but if you take it off, there's nothing left to her. She is so self-centred, so certain that she is better than everyone just because she is beautiful. It's all there is about her, and it is meaningless."

"You come back to my point. Her beauty blinds you more than me."

          Ginny rolled her eyes which was not the good way to make Hannibal drop a subject.

"Being purposefully beautiful does not unqualify you for any human virtues," he stated flatly, "and does not take any depth away from you."

"No indeed. She just happens to be both beautiful and depthless. Have you talked to her for more than a minute? She is stupid. She just is. She's not the one who will break the stereotype about beauty."

"The one you are heavily hinting at? You will be surprised to learn that, when I met her, Fleur Delacour had ranked top of her class every single trimester since her first year at Beauxbatons. Her results were so perfect in Blessings and Curses that she was offered scholarships for colleges years ahead of her graduation. She was one of the youngest Presidents of the Student Body ever elected and has organized many events to raise funds for Beauxbatons, ultimately leading to the renovation of the old marble Gazebo of Mélusine, an antique relic that was threatening to completely crumble upon itself. Fleur Delacour is no national hero and no saviour of the people, but she has her fair share of accomplishment. Did you really believe that, out of all of the students in Beauxbatons, she was chosen for the Triwizard Tournament because she was beautiful? As the Durmstrand champion and as the Hogwarts champions were, Fleur Delacour was deemed the most promising student of her school. It is strange then that you don't seem to have wondered what could be her qualities beyond her looks. Maybe you are the one who can’t see past them."

          Ginny seemed even angrier now than when Hannibal had barely concealed his personal attack toward her. It was certainly mostly her ego which was hurt, and Will could empathize with that. However, he didn't feel like stepping in. He knew better than to oppose Hannibal's lectures.

"Even if she had accomplished twice what you said," Ginny said, her fists clenched, "it doesn't take away her horrible behaviour. She looks down on everyone. She talks to Hermione and I as if we were three year olds. She always criticizes mum, wanting to teach her how to cook and clean. She is always so judgmental about everything. She acts like she is so mature when she's only with Bill because he has a bit of an adventurous life. I don't care what she's done, I can't stand her."

          Will could easily read Hannibal's blank face and guess there a hesitation between amusement and annoyance, but both were barely concealing the disdain behind.

"You do realize that your Dark Lord has never been a threat to France. Fleur is willing to leave her country behind and jump into a war for Bill Weasley, and you don't think that earns her the credit of genuine feelings? It sounds judgmental to me. And if Fleur is doing some cleaning and cooking around here, it means that she is doing more for Molly Weasley than her seven children had in their lifetime."

"What that's supposed to mean?" Ron asked, frowning.

          Hannibal ignored him and kept his focus on Ginny.

"Fleur is not perfect. She is as flawed as anyone else. But I fail to see how I am fundamentally different from her? Though I am no part-veela, I do purposefully dress and act in a way that is flattering for me. I am just as confident as her, and I tend to indulge in condescension and shallowness more than my fair share. Yet, you never showed toward me half the disdain you hold against her. Maybe, the difference in our feelings for Fleur is not linked to the fact that I am a man, and more linked to the fact that she is a woman. Beauty does not come at the price of depth."

"Why are you so defensive of her?" Hermione asked from the window. "You really were close friends at Beauxbatons?"

"No we were not," he said, his eyes still fixed on Ginny's, unwavering. “We are not friends at all, actually. But she is no cow."

"I didn't mean it like..."

"What you mean does not matter. What you say does. The words that get out of your mouth are the ones I receive. And the one that got out is ‘cow’. It is a deeply unpleasant one to hear, when it is so obviously undeserved."

"Hold on a second, guys, there's no need to blow this out of proportion."

          Will looked at Harry. He wouldn't have bet that he, of all the people gathered here, would be the one to cool spirits down. The angry boy had changed a lot since last year. Maybe the events at the Ministry had taught him a lesson the hard and unforgettable way.

"You're right, Hannibal, we shouldn't have insulted her, it was misplaced," he said, extending a flat hand as a sign of peace.

          Will nodded internally. Harry seemed to be grasping the basis of how to handle Hannibal. No matter the situation, no matter the rights and wrongs of anyone involved, the first thing to do when it came to calming a tense interaction was to abound in his sense, and to disarm his dissatisfaction, as it was from him that the worse would always come, in any given setting. Only when Hannibal was not on the verge of displeasure could other, less fatal problems be addressed.

"Ultimately," Harry said once Hannibal had finally looked away from Ginny, "it's up to Bill to choose. He is living with her, he knows her more than us. If he loves her, it's not our place to tell whether or not she is good for him. Bill is a clever guy, as you said, Ginny."

          Will was sincerely surprised by Harry's handling of the situation. Something in him was quietly whispering that his friend was slowly becoming the leader he was meant to be in the war to come.

          Hannibal must have picked up on something too, because he was detailing Harry with a concealed approbation. And it couldn't be because Harry had sided with him. Though it was a very efficient tactic with him, Hannibal was never fooled and always knew, when it happened, that it was a strategic move to diffuse the situation at hand. He didn't care however, as he was often flattered by the anguish and the urgency he could create in people that knew the first thing about him. The fact that, though still tragically clueless, Harry had instinctively adopted an attitude toward him similar to Will's amused him profoundly.

          However, the relative peace was broken by the door opening once again, Mrs Weasley's head popping in.

"Ginny, come downstairs and help me with lunch."

"I'm talking to this lot!" Ginny exclaimed, annoyed at the interruption.

"Now!" Mrs Weasley insisted before disappearing.

          Ginny sighed deeply, as if the weight of the world had fallen on her shoulders.

"She just can't bear to be alone with her."

"Don't worry," Hannibal said, with an annoyance matching her own. "I will go, you can stay."

          Without adding anything, Hannibal slipped his wand in his pocket and walked to the door left opened by Mrs Weasley. Will was not too happy about that. He knew it was better than a fight between Ginny and his boyfriend, but he had hoped he could have used the tray brought by Fleur to make sure Hannibal was eating something today. He knew Hannibal’s starvation was a side effect of the frustration forced upon him, and that, now that they were reuniting, there was no reason for it to last, but still. Will wanted to make sure his friend would begin eating again as soon as possible. But bringing this matter up in front of everyone would simply drastically antagonize Hannibal who would ultimately take pleasure into counteracting Will’s efforts. The only thing left to do was to let him leave for now.

          Once Hannibal was out of the room, Ginny let herself fall back against the window with a long sigh.

"He really has a thing for her, doesn't he?"

          Will loudly cleared his throat.

"I don't mean it like that," Ginny added. "But they must be close friends of something. I really didn't mean to piss him off."

"I don't think they are friends," Will said. "There is just a very clear line in his head between the people that deserve to be insulted and the people that don't, and he doesn't like it when that line is ignored."

"Well, I hope he will be less extreme than last year about what he likes to hear and what he doesn't because last time..."

          Ginny let her sentence die on her lips. They all had in mind the clear memory of the argument between Harry and Hannibal in the Ministry, and its mortal outcome. Will hadn't thought much about Luna during the past month. Actually, his mind had been mostly blank and exhausted. Burnt out. And now that it was faced with her again, it didn't quite know what to think about her.

"Harry..." Ginny called.

          Harry didn't answer. He knew full well what the conversation was going to be about, and he didn't wish to acknowledge it in any way.

"We haven't been able to talk since... you know," she said, unwilling to let Harry's avoidance silence her questions and worries. "Ron wouldn't talk to me either."

"It's because I don't know anything!" Ron defended himself. "It was a mess for everyone."

"What was it about, Harry?" she asked, disregarding her brother. "That whole thing, the shimmering ball, the trap... What was it about? What did Voldemort want that night?"

          Harry slowly breathed in, then out, keeping his eyes down for a moment, trying to order either his words, his thoughts or his feelings before finally answering.

"Those are prophecies. The things in the Department of Ministry. Each of them, it contains a unique prophecy. Voldemort needed me to retrieve one so he could see it."

"And what was it about? The prophecy with your name on it. What did it say?"

"I don't know," Harry admitted. "I destroyed it. I threw it at Voldemort when he was fighting against Hannibal. I'll never know what's on it."

"What about Professor Dumbledore?"

          They all turned toward Hermione, who had her eyes in the distance, veiled by her memory.

"When you talked to Voldemort..." she quietly recalled, "you remembered what he said? That Professor Dumbledore knew the prophecy word by word."

"Yeah... Maybe..."

"He told you something about it?" Ron asked. "About the prophecy, I mean."

"Not really, no. But I didn't ask him specifically about it."

"Maybe you should next time you'll see him."

"Yeah, I will."

          They remained silent for a second before Ginny asked in a soft voice, unsure of her own question.

"And what about Sirius?"

"What about him?" Harry frowned.

"You said he was in danger but..."

"... He wasn't."

          Harry's eyes fell back on his hands, his fists clenching on his laps.

"He wasn't even there. Never has been. I brought you all there for nothing, and as a result Luna... But Sirius was never in any danger. Hermione was right about it."

"It doesn't matter," Hermione coldly stated. "If it hadn't been Sirius, it would have been someone else. Voldemort would have found a way to lure you in anyway."

          Will wasn't so sure. If Harry had listened to others, first Dumbledore telling him to ignore the visions then Hermione and Hannibal affirming they were impossible, Voldemort would have had little means to trick him into leaving Hogwarts. But that didn't mean he considered Harry responsible for Luna's death. There were more legitimate guilts before his. Yes, he had been tricked, but he had explicitly asked for the others to stay at Hogwarts, he had tried his best to stand his ground and had been ignored like he had ignored others. And Will, who had chosen Bellatrix's death over his friends' life, was more directly guilty of the girl's death than Harry.

          Not that he regretted it.

          His eyes lingered on his own wand on the bedside table. Bellatrix's sculpted blood lazily shining under the morning light.

          He had no regret, and would do it again, even at higher costs.

"Children!" a muffled voice called loudly from downstairs. "There's some mail for you! It's from Hogwarts!"

          Ron whitened at once, his mouth opening wide, as well as his empty eyes.

"The OWLs results," he whispered in a breath.

"I guess so, yes," Harry said, getting off the bed. "No point in idling, we better go check and be done with it."

          Will followed the motion and walked to his suitcase that had been put next to Hannibal's. He took from it one of his hoodies he quickly passed over his head, above his pyjama’s top. He then put his shoes on, tied them swiftly, and by the time he was done, Ginny, Ron and Harry were already walking down the stairs. Only Hermione was still in the room, her eyes lost on the window, the OWL situation apparently very far from her mind.

"I thought you'd be the first one to rush downstairs," Will said, picking up his wand to put it in his pocket.

          Hermione's eyes detached themselves from the fields outside to look at Will for a moment.

"I would have thought so too."

"Yet, you're not."

          Hermione's breath was silent yet deep, as was her mind.

"That would be silly," she finally said after a while.

"It wouldn't," Will said. "I don't think it would."

"The OWLs seem rather... secondary, to be honest."

          Hermione stood up from the windowsill and began to walk to the door.

"Hermione," he called.

          She hesitated, and for a second Will thought she was going to simply walk away, but she ultimately stopped, her back at him.

"About Luna," he said in a soft voice, "I don't think I've taken the time to tell you how sorry I am."

"Say that to Ginny," she simply added, her back still resolutely at him, "she was her best friend."

"I know. But it's in your arms that she died."

          There was a moment of silence, during which Will could do little more than to detail Hermione's long brushy hair falling freely around her head.

"Yes, you're right. It is."

          Hermione left the room on that flat statement.

          Will wasted a moment, looking at the now empty spot in front of him. Then, knowing that nothing could nor should be added, he shoved his hands on the front pocket of his hoodie and walked out of the room, down the stairs.

          As he was halfway through them, he heard fast and heavy paws hitting the wood above his head and Fang ran down after him, ecstatic to find him back after their night of separation. The dog had grown used to sleeping near him, especially with the loneliness that Hagrid's departure had left him with. But now that Hannibal was back, he would have to suffer through more solitary nights. Sorry for him, Will scratched the dog behind the ears as they were both making their way downstairs.

          Once there, he found everyone in the living-room, around the table where five dark owls were standing proudly. Tawnies, Will noticed at once and, disregarding the large letters they were carrying, he took a plate from the closest cabinet and poured some cold water to bring it to the birds.

          Once they were freed from their burden, the five owls hopped to it to take a sip.

"Hannibal, my dear," Molly Weasley called from behind him, for the boy that had remained in the kitchen. "Come here, lunch can wait."

          One of the owls, a bit smaller than the other four, tried to pass her head under the wing of her colleague to access the water. Will detailed the scene with fondness. A great rooter for the underdog, he pushed the plate toward her small head so she could take a sip. He was watching the five birds with such care, he barely noticed Ron handing him his letter.

"Oh, sorry, thanks."

          He finally took his eyes off the animals to open the envelope and read the paper inside.

ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL RESULTS

Pass Grades

Outstanding (O)

Exceeding Expectations (E)

Acceptable (A)

Fail Grades

Poor (P)

Dreadful (D)

Troll (T)

Astronomy O

Care for Magical Creatures O

Charms E

Defense Against the Dark Arts E

Divination O

Herbology D

History of Magic A

Potions T

Transfiguration E

          Two arms slipped by each of his sides to hug him from behind and, a blink later, Will could feel the familiar weight of Hannibal's head on his shoulder. His boyfriend took a second to read the results before landing a light kiss on Will's neck.

"Good enough to allow you to continue on your path," he commented. "If it is still a path you want to walk."

"Yes. Still."

          He had some difficulty wrapping his head around the fact that he had been able to achieve an Acceptable grade in History of Magic.

"Thanks again. For helping out. Would have never gotten the passing grade without you."

"You wouldn't have indeed. Procrastination got the better of you. But this year is the year you will walk on your own, now that you know where you are heading."

          Hannibal let his forehead rest on the hollow of Will's neck, breathing in at length.

"D in Herbology, however?" he whispered.

"Told you. By the end of the exam, I didn't have a plant anymore. I'm surprised it's not lower. I think it’s just because I manage to not die."

"So, you will be able to follow all the classes but Potions and Herbology."

"Can't I drop Transfiguration? It's not like I'm gonna use it."

"You can do whatever you want..."

"I can hear your disapproval just in the suspension in your voice."

          Will folded his paper and put it in the pocket of his hoodie before turning around to face Hannibal.

"What about you?" he asked, resting his hands on his boyfriend’s hips.

"Nothing under the standard of perfection I uphold for myself."

"You're gonna continue everything?"

"Probably. It does look good on a biography."

"Normal people would have ended that sentence with the word resume, not biography."

"How tepid of them."

          Will smiled with fondness and kissed his boyfriend's cheek before turning toward the others who were all discovering their results.

"So?" he asked.

"Better than I feared," Harry said while handing his paper to Ron. "Though it is now certain, won't be able to continue Potions."

"We talked about it, already," Hannibal stated patiently.

"About what?" Will asked.

"Harry is afraid for his Auror career."

          Will shrugged it off.

"If they could, they would hire you today, Harry. You shouldn't care too much about NEWTs. It won't truly matter for you."

"Maybe, maybe not," Harry finally concluded. "We will see, it's not what bothers me the most at the moment."

"You all had excellent results," Mrs Weasley commented after having read her son's report. "Congratulations, you've done very well. Let's celebrate that with a good meal!"

"Great idea!" Ron exclaimed.

          Hannibal took his wand out and, with a quick gesture, the plates floated around their heads and softly landed at their exact places on the table, bothering the five owls who spread their wings and flew away from the open window.

          Mrs Weasley opened her mouth, as if to comment on the use of magic, but she ultimately closed it, certainly remembering that Hannibal was not from a country that had the same laws about underage magic. She finally went for another matter.

"Very beautiful wand that you have here. Is it Magnolia or Holly?"

"Oh, Mrs Weasley, it is nothing but holy."

          Will kept his smile to himself and sat down at the table, next to Ron.

          It was going to be a great year, he could feel it.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 3

Alleys and Counter-Alleys

          Will didn't quite know how he felt about Hannibal.

          Or, more exactly, about Hannibal's latest exaction. The days at the Burrow had been passing by, slowly and leisurely, at the pace of a summer Will hadn't enjoyed so far, and, with them, their worries and questions were being taken away. So much so that it was easy to ignore why Hannibal and Will were together now. And even easier to forget that Will was disapproving of the situation.

          He didn't know for sure if he was angry at Hannibal. It was obvious that his friend had been pushed against the wall, though neither Dumbledore nor Will had realized it at the time. Hannibal had acted according to his nature, and Will couldn't blame him for it. He was even relieved in some ways. Firstly, because Hannibal could have done far worse – he could always do far worse, that was one of the few immutable truths of the Universe – and secondly because Will felt more at ease the closer Hannibal was to him.

          His friend was a worrying soul, but distance didn't keep Will or anyone any safer therefore he preferred to keep the Monster under the light of his close attention and surveillance.

          But Lily's sister had died, and Hannibal had been reckless, compromising once again his fragile person suit. They were nearly out of school, and they had been able to leave behind most of their skeletons, Will couldn't deny that having Hannibal ruin everything for the sake of his twisted values would piss him off much more than what would be wise.

          But, on the other hand, he didn't dare to bring it up again with Hannibal. He felt like, despite their reunion, it was still a sore spot of bitterness for his friend and he feared that more could be reproached to him if they were to dwell on it. Will didn't have much choice but to let the incident go. He had not asked about what Dumbledore had said about it, nor had he asked if Hannibal had left any incriminating evidence behind. He had said nothing at all, only relying on the trust he had in his soulmate to satiate his doubts.

          As he was lying on the bed they shared in the room of that Percy brother, he was detailing the back of his boyfriend who was sitting at the desk, leaning over some paper of his. Hannibal had resumed his days as he used to lead them, as if neither their separation nor the death of Lily's sister had taken place at all. Only his exacerbated thinness and Will's caution were telling of the past events still looming over their mind.

"Still angry at me?" the Empath asked, both his hands behind his head as a makeshift pillow.

"Despite my best efforts, I have never been good at nurturing anger toward you," Hannibal answered without taking his eyes off the work that was absorbing him so completely.

          He had not asked what he should have been angry about and hadn't dismissed Will's incertitude about an eventual hard feeling.

          Hannibal was no liar, and he was the first to express his emotions, at least to Will. But that didn't mean he hadn't been angry at some point.

"Are you angry with me?"

          This time, it was Hannibal who had asked the question.

"Despite my best efforts, I've never been able to completely rid myself of the anger I have for you since the first time we met," Will answered truthfully.

"Fair enough."

          Hannibal turned around, his fond smile barely concealed. He put down his quill and stood up from his chair before crossing the room to sit down by Will's side, on the bed.

"Where have you been?" he asked after a minute of contemplating the visage of his soulmate. "While I was there, where were you?"

"Here and there," Will shrugged. "Most of the time, I didn't even know where I was exactly. Apparently, there was a problem with the Black house."

"Yes. Their house elf ratted it all to our magical friend."

          Hannibal's eyes lingered on their wands on the bedside table and Will guessed who their ‘magic friend’ was.

"Do they know about her?"

"Who is that 'they'?"

"I don't know. Dumbledore?"

"I don't think so. Not yet. He will figure it out, eventually."

"Voldemort?"

"He must have understood that something has happened to her. She was too loyal to him to simply disappear like that. Though, wherever or not he believes she is dead, and that you killed her, I can't tell."

          Will sighed. They were leaving more and more stains behind them. A spreading trail. Was this his life now? More and more skeletons until there were simply too many for them to mean anything anymore?

"What about our other friend that we left in the lake?"

"Professor Dumbledore does believe that Grawp took a bite off her."

"Finally, a win for you. About time."

          Hannibal didn't say a word, but Will could tell the remark had profoundly vexed him. Even though it was nothing but the truth. Dumbledore had come on top of most of their confrontations, whether or not Hannibal was willing to acknowledge it. Umbridge was their first true victory over the old clever Headmaster.

"What's gonna happen to Hagrid?"

"He was not found guilty of the murder. But he was deemed responsible for the Giant. He will never teach again."

"That's awful..."

"That is just."

"How is it just?"

"He wasn't punished for the murder he did not commit. I will remind you that I am not the one who brought that Giant in the Forest. He is. Ultimately, the only crime he is being punished for is one he indeed committed."

"If it hadn't been for us, no one would have ever known about Grawp."

"Are you saying that a crime undiscovered is no crime at all? Here is a neat logic that I will make sure to remind you of at a future time."

"Yeah, you're so clever..." Will rolled his eyes while half-heartedly pushing his boyfriend away.

"I happen to be, indeed," Hannibal smiled before resisting the weak push and leaning forward to kiss Will's lips.

          For a moment, they simply looked at each other, taking in the other's presence and enjoying the slow yet ineluctable return of their complicity. Then:

"What will happen after that?"

          Will's mind was often turned toward the future, lately. Maybe he was in the right period of his life for that. After years of having been diagnosed with none.

"After what?"

"After this year. Next summer. You've taken Dumbledore by surprise, and you had him rushed to a solution. But next summer, if we are once again separated, who will you kill?"

"About next summer..."

"Yes?"

"There was this little idea of mine that I would have shared earlier, if I had had a means to contact you."

"Just speak already."

          But before Hannibal could say a word, a voice interrupted them from the first floor.

"Hannibal! Will! We're leaving!"

"Shit, I've nearly forgotten about them!"

          They were supposed to go to Diagon Alley today, to buy the school supplies for the year to come. Will had to admit he was not unhappy with that plan. He had remained locked up inside all summer and craved the fresh air he would get there.

"Hold that thought," he said, getting up the bed and fetching Fang's leash from under the bed.

"It is not going anywhere," Hannibal assured him before following him outside the room.

          Diagon Alley was very different from the Place Cachée, Will realized. He had never been to the British hidden avenue, but he had thought he would recognize it for having seen it all before. Maybe with narrower streets, and more colourful and less carefully standardized shops, but he had thought that he would find there the same crowd, the same chaos as at its French counterpart.

          It couldn't be less true. His predictions about the streets and the shops were accurate but the crowd and the chaos were absent. As if the place had been deserted. Most of the shops looked closed, and they were so few people in the streets that Will could hear his steps echo around him. On the sad grey walls, posters had been plastered, showing the pictures of various people, some wanted for hideous crimes, others for having simply disappeared mysteriously. Most probably, executioners and victims were sharing the same portions of stone in a twisted sense of irony. The kind Hannibal alone could enjoy. And Will too, when he was in a good spirit.

          Fang was walking closely by Will's side, his tongue hanging from his mouth, his nostrils trembling with uncertainty. He had suffered from the isolation even more so than Will, as he was used to having the whole of Hogwarts ground for him to run and play. He didn't have much freedom here, Will keeping him close to him so as to not lose him in that unfamiliar place, but it was still better than the succession of closed rooms he had had up until now. However, even the dog could feel something was off with the place.

"What happened?" Harry asked, confirming that it was indeed not a usual situation.

          The boy was walking a few steps ahead and had asked the question to the Auror with the magic eye who was accompanying them today.

"People are afraid," the man simply said. "They don't want to be outside."

"There have been a lot of disappearances," Mr Weasley told them, looking at the succession of closed doors. "Not many people want to take the chance, now."

"I can't blame them," Ron said, detailing one of the shops which had all its windows broken and its door lying in pieces on the cobblestones.

          Will tightened his grips both around Fang's leash and Hannibal's hand. The place reeked of death and despair; it was nearly overwhelming.

"That's an unfortunate year to start a business," Hermione said, "Fred and George must be disappointed."

"Not at all, actually," Mrs Weasley said with disbelief, as if she wasn't trusting her own words. "Apparently, it's going very well. That’s what they say, anyway. They are part of the very few shops that are still open and they have a lot of clients every day."

"People need to laugh," Werewolf teacher said with a gloomy tone that didn't fit his words at all.

          Will really should be learning their names, but he couldn't bring himself to care enough.

"Madam Malkin's open," Ron said while pointing his finger at a sign on their right.

"Perfect. You all go there while we are getting your books. Here, Ron, the money for you and your sister."

"We're getting new robes?" Ron asked.

"Yes, Charlie's old one won't do anymore."

"You're sure, mum," Ginny asked with a frown.

"Yes, don't worry. Quick, quick."

          Will knew that kind of situation all too well. His father could have never afforded tailor-made robes, and, though he hadn't cared much himself, he could easily understand the mixture of joy and guilt in Ron and Ginny's eyes.

“Mum,” Ginny said, “we don’t need…”

“I’m telling you, Ginny,” Mrs Weasely interrupted before her daughter could finish her sentence, “Will, give me the dog, I don’t think he will be allowed inside. I will take care of him while you can’t.”

“Thanks, ma’am.”

          He gave the leash to Ron’s mother and Fang licked his hand before walking away.

"Let's go," Harry said, "there's no one for now."

          They all followed him into one of the very few opened shops of the area.

          Madam Malkin was a small witch, with a nervous posture though Will couldn't tell if it was her norm or a result of the current situation. She welcomed them quickly and didn't waste a second before closing the door behind them, whispering a protective charm under her breath. Only once it was done did she turn toward them with a pale smile.

"It's for Hogwarts, isn't it?" she asked.

"Yes, Ma'am," Ron nodded.

"Six complete sets of uniforms?"

"I will opt out, thank you."

          They turned toward Hannibal who had said that with a polite smile. Will wasn't surprised. He could guess that his boyfriend was the kind to be faithful to his tailors and to choose them carefully, according to an extensive list of ridiculous criterias. Madam Malkin's shop was not a place he was willing to shop in, and no one would possibly be able to force him.

"You already have them?" Hermione asked.

"I will figure them out, do not worry."

          He then found an isolated chair, out of everyone's way, and sat down, ready to wait patiently.

          Will was the first to go, with Ron and Ginny. It didn't take much time, as Madam Malkin seemed to know every gesture by heart. She was certainly used to working at an insane pace for an unimaginable number of clients a day, especially this close to September, and she didn't waste any second. It had nothing to do with the literal hours Will had spent at Maison Capenoir, last year, and in barely ten minutes, he stepped down his stool, carrying the different pieces of uniforms that had been made for him.

          He let Hannibal pay for them, and he had sat down by his side to wait for Harry and Hermione. However, as they were near the end of the fittings, the door of the shop opened on well-known silhouettes.

          Will had never given much of his attention to Draco Malfoy. He knew him, of course. Had some classes with him – though he had dropped potion early during the last year – and knew that he was Harry's archenemy, maybe more so than Voldemort himself. They had exchanged a couple of words, a month ago, and Draco Malfoy had sworn eternal revenge, but he had yet to uphold his promise and Will wasn't too worried about it. Therefore, he didn't even care enough to stand up when the other student entered the shop, though Harry jumped at once, and Hermione, Ginny and Ron tensed accordingly.

          Draco had changed over the summer, not in a dissimilar fashion to Hannibal. Though less extreme, the changes were of the same nature. As if something at the end of the last year had marked the definitive dissension between the past and the future and that, more so than grown up or toughen up, Draco Malfoy had become more of an adult.

          Will had never seen the woman by his side, apart from the pictures hanging on the walls of the manor he had blown up a few minutes after seeing them. Narcissa Malfoy, as he knew she was named, was quite different from the photographs he had seen. Older and weaker, there was a nervousness and a dread behind her cold eyes that weren't there in the pictures. It was skilfully hidden, and Will didn't know if anyone but him had spotted it, but he had. And he could tell that that mother was afraid.

          However, at the sight of the other clients in the shop, her features tensed in disdain and anger.

"What are you doing here, Potter?" Malfoy asked right away, his grey eyes stabbing Harry's with an unhidden disgust.

"What do you think?" Harry replied coldly. "Buying my outfit for your dad's trial, of course."

          Will had not really followed the news during the summer but even he had been made aware of the disgrace of Lucius Malfoy. The man had gone overnight from the hero who had lost his house and risked his life in a fight against Death Eaters to being one of them on the run. His trial in absentia had been a very public business as a way to show to the wizarding community that rooting out corruption and dealing out the retaliations were a priority of that new Ministry.

          Will wasn't too moved about it. He didn't care much about the Malfoy family. The son had made threats against him and Hannibal back in June, but the idea was so laughable and absurd that Will failed to take them seriously or to consider them as worthy of his emotional investment.

"You watch your mouth, Potter! Next time, he won't miss you."

          Draco was livid, his lips pinched and his eyes shining with hatred. Harry had hit a sore spot; they were all aware of that.

"That's only the third time he tried and missed. I guess he is just as much of a failure as his son."

          Not unexpectedly, Draco pulled out his wand at once, quickly followed by Ginny and Harry.

"Come on!" Madam Malkin tried to bring back some calm. "Put those wands away, there is no need for any of this!"

          Will got to his feet, in case a fight was to actually break in front of them, but Hannibal stayed seated, his eyes going from Harry to Draco with an unashamed amusement and a hint of eagerness.

"I would advise you to put your wands away," Draco's mother said, her hand on her son's shoulders, her eyes threatening Ginny and Harry. "If you so much as touch a single hair on my son's head, I will have no remorse reuniting you with that lost friend of yours."

          Ginny’s grip on her wand tightened, her eyes shooting anger, her teeth grinding from the forceful control she was exerting over herself to not let that mention of her best friend get to her.

"Mrs Malfoy, please!" Madam Malkin tried again.

          Since her entrance in the shop, Will had had the feeling that he had seen that feminine face behind Draco somewhere other than in a family picture. But now, with her cold expression of pure relentlessness and the veiled threats behind her clear eyes, he knew where he had seen her before.

          The mother had the exact same features as the late Bellatrix Lestrange. And Will remembered distinctly the name Narcissa Black side by side with Bellatrix Black on the genealogical tapestry he had spent a night studying during the Easter break.

"Why don't you try it here and now?" Harry asked. "So that you can go cell hunting ahead of your husband's life sentencing?"

          Despite his wand being drawn and ready to fight, Harry seemed relaxed. He wasn't anxious, barely tensed, obsessed that he was with hurting the Malfoy family in any way.

          Will could help his good friend with that.

"How's your sister?" he asked to everyone’s surprise.

          The two Malfoys, caught up in their confrontation with Harry, hadn't even looked once at their corner of the store and were only now noticing Hannibal and Will's silent presence by their side.

          Once her surprise overcome, Narcissa Malfoy realized the meaning of the question that had been asked to her and frowned at once, on her guards.

"Who are you?"

          Despite her question being directed at Will, her eyes kept drifting toward Hannibal sitting behind him, the worrying shadow, and if he was the sole real object worthy of her attention. Will was eager for her to learn better.

"He's the one I told you about, Mother," Draco said, and Will wondered how much he had told her. "Lecter's mudblood."

          At that sentence, her eyes snapped back to Will, something akin to urgency shining behind them as she instinctively stepped between Draco and Will.

          That was a wiser reaction, Will thought.

"What do you know about my sister?"

"What should I know about her?"

          Will was fully aware of Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Harry in the room with him, and knew he should play that conversation while keeping both his audiences his mind.

          For all he was supposed to know, Bellatrix had fled the Ministry after the confrontations, and, in all likelihood, she had found her way back to Voldemort.

"Tell me what you know!" Narcissa repeated, progressively losing her calm and composure, now that her mysteriously missing sister had been brought up.

          Will shoved his hands in his pocket. With the tip of his fingers, he could caress the cold crystalized blood of Bellatrix Lestrange, forming his wand. His eyes didn't waver from Narcissa Malfoy, however.

"I just know one thing.”

          Will could see her breathing pick up, in expectation of what she was about to learn.

“I just know she ran like the little bitch she didn't know she was when she found it in her to touch my boyfriend."

          Though Madam Malkin gasped at his words, Narcissa didn't waste a second on misguided outrage. She pulled her own wand out, gripping it so tightly her fingers were as white as her face, and before anyone could register it, a black spell was flying through the store, aiming right at Will's chest.

          The boy didn't even try to counter it. He knew it wasn't necessary. It wasn’t as if he was left unprotected. A fraction of a second before it was to hit him, the black lightning crashed into an invisible wall in a disappointing hiss, like a flame nipped by two wet fingers.

          Hannibal stood up behind Will with a long sigh.

"Mrs Malfoy! You can't..."

          But all ignored Madam Malkin.

          Understanding that Hannibal had stepped in, Narcissa tightened her grip on her wand, her free hand searching behind her to make sure Draco was still unreachable.

          Hannibal smiled at the impulsive need to shield the son.

"Ah... Here it is," he said in a voice just as calm as Will's had been. "That eagerness to protect. To care in the face of danger. It reminds us both of something, doesn't it? A shared moment in a dark basement."

          Narcissa didn't answer but the way her lips pinched, Will could guess that, unlike him, she knew what Hannibal was talking about.

"Tell me, Cissy" Hannibal continued, "that beautiful maternal instinct that you showed twice, is it something that you always had in you? Or was it something nearly... counter-human to you?"

          If Narcissa had been enraged before, that last sentence, whatever it was supposed to mean, drew the worst reaction out of her. Will had no idea what Hannibal was referencing, but, whatever it was, Narcissa knew. And she feared it, even more so than anything else that had been brought up, up until now. That word that Hannibal had emphasized clearly and unapologetically, it meant something to her, and it was something terrible.

"Don't you dare to..." she struggled to formulate, "if you come anywhere near my son, I'll..."

"Well, we're gonna spend yet another year together," Will pointed out, not needing to understand Hannibal in order to roll with his game. "So, there's that, I guess."

          Her eyes went from Hannibal to Will, as if she was linking them both with the threat Hannibal had made but none but her had understood.

"If you hurt him..."

"Why would we?" Will interrupted right away.

          He didn't say that he wouldn't hurt Draco. He was simply advising Narcissa to wonder what reasons he would have to hurt his son.

          However, to Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Harry, it certainly sounded like Will rhetorically pointing out he had no reason to go after the Slytherin boy.

"Draco, we are leaving."

"Mother, they..."

"Now," she snapped at once, grabbing his son's arm to force him toward the door with her.

          Before exiting, her eyes met Hannibal and Will one last time, and they were both aware that any harm done to Draco Malfoy would be answered with retaliation.

          Once the door had been closed, an eerie silence settled in the shop.

          Before it was interrupted by Ron Weasley.

"What the hell was that?!"

"You all, you are done here, I want you to exit my establishment right away!" exclaimed a very angry Madam Malkin, pushing Hermione and Harry toward the door.

          A second later, they were all in the deserted street, all their thoughts still on what had just happened.

"What is our next stop?" Hannibal politely wondered.

"Fred and George's shop and... no but like seriously?! What the hell happened?"

"You didn't pay attention?" Hannibal asked Ron.

"I did, but I don't understand what it was all about. What about her sister?"

"Her sister's Bellatrix Lestrange," Harry pointed out. "Sirius told me."

"I just asked what about her," Will shrugged. "We were already speaking about family, anyway. And we have as much news about Lestrange than we have about Lucius Malfoy. I wanted to see if her sister was as much of a sore topic as her husband."

"Why did you say she ran?" Hermione asked.

"Because she did. You didn't notice cause you ran ahead but since I was behind you, I can tell. She ran away."

          Or, more accurately, she had tried to. Before Will had caught her a second later.

"I'm guessing she is back with her dear dark lord," Harry spit. "Those two really found each other."

"What does counter-human mean?"

          As could be expected, Hermione had kept her eyes on the most important words she had heard today. She had been able to tell at once what the real deal was, and Will had to admit he wanted to have an answer to that too. Even though, in his case, he would have preferred to wait to be alone with Hannibal before broaching the topic.

"Mmh?" Hannibal hummed innocently with a small, unaware smile.

"You said counter-human."

"I did, indeed."

"What does it mean?"

"It means something that goes against human nature," then, after a beat, "Doesn't it?"

"You mean... unnatural?"

"I guess I do. I must have confused my English with my Latin."

          How shamelessly hypocritical. Will would remember that very moment the next time Hannibal would feel righteous enough to lecture him about lying.

          The explanation, however, seemed to convince Ron and Harry who began to walk up the street toward their next destination. On the other hand, Will noticed the frown on Hermione’s face, but she didn't add anything and, eventually, she followed her two friends. Will knew her questions were far from answered, however.

"For how long your brothers had had that plan to open their own shop?" Will asked Ron and Ginny to prevent the silence from encouraging anyone to ask further questions.

"I don't really know, it came as a surprise, to be honest. We just thought they were loud and chaotic, we didn't know they had any plan with it."

          Will didn't know much about Ginny's older twin brothers. They weren't in any of his classes, had left the Quidditch team before he had integrated it and Will had never gone out of his way to get to know someone. Yet loud and chaotic indeed seemed like accurate words to describe the two infamous pranksters.

"You've seen them since the last time at Hogwarts?" Harry asked.

"They went to the hospital every day to see me," Ginny shrugged. “Spent whole afternoons there.”

          It was obvious from the dismissive nature of her tone that she had no desire to recall her time at the hospital. And everyone got the message loud and clear.

          Thankfully, the scene in front of them arrived as a welcomed distraction.

          Much like its owners, the storefront of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes had nothing discreet about it. Compared to the other shops around, Weasleys' place was the only one standing out thanks to the vivid colours of its magenta walls and orange timberwork. Its windows were illuminated by never-ending fireworks behind them, exploding in dozens of lights and shapes attracting the focus of every passer-by of the otherwise sad street.

          It reminded Will of the constant fireworks that had haunted Hogwarts for a week prior to the disappearance of Umbridge, as a parting gift from the twins. It seemed to be their trademark but, judging by the sheer dimensions of the store, they had to have other things going as well.

          Will regretted stepping in the second the door closed behind their group. The inside of this store was everything the outside street was not: crowded, busy and noisy.

          The space that had seemed reasonably large from the outside seemed ridiculously tiny once inside, cluttered to its brim, as it was indubitably welcoming more than it physically could.

          The alleys of the stores were cramped with shelves, stands, racks crumbling under too many objects of all shapes, sizes and colours. There was nowhere the sight could rest that wasn't of a bright and vivid hue scratching the eyes and hammering the skull. Many objects were based of smells, and all of them, the pleasing ones, the funny ones and the worrying ones, would blend and blur in a suffocating mixture of overcharged and indiscernible scents that would leave an aftertaste to linger on the tongue and the back of the throat.

          Will tried to push through it as he walked forward but, when they all split to go where each one's curiosity would bring them, things got drastically worse. Isolated in the middle of the crowd, Will wasn't sure where the exit was anymore, and he could slowly feel in his bones as if a trap was ineluctably closing on him. But, worse than that, was the crowd itself. With his short stature, Will couldn't look above other people and was literally drowning in an ocean of bodies crushing against him in waves. At first, he tried his best to dodge around and stay out of everyone's way, but in the narrow and congested alleys in between shelves, it was virtually impossible. Most clients were happy to push their way to the section of the store they wanted to reach and there was not enough space to step aside anyway. And the pushes would invariably send him against more unknown bodies, creating shivers of disgust and anguish each time he was taken by surprise by a contact he hadn't been able to foresee.

          Will tried to cross his arms against his chest, in an attempt to put some distance between the world and him, but that was of very limited efficiency. He tried to make his way back to the door, but since he was dodging rather than pushing, his path was the result of the motions around him rather than his own will, ending up locked in a loop of steps back matching each step forward.

          Will hugged himself more tightly, to no end. The general overwhelmness was worsening his senses, and now, even his own shirt was scratching his skin, his own breath was echoing inside his head and the heat of his body felt like it was on a continuous rise.

          However, it wasn't the crowd, nor the smell that really sent him spiralling but the endless, nerve-wracking noises. The whole store was screaming in his ears. Unpredictable detonations around him were keeping him in a perpetual state of distressed startlement. The people around him were chatting away so loudly that Will felt like their pieces of random English he couldn't understand were drilling through his eardrums. He had to clench his fist around the fabric of his sleeves to prevent himself from punching in the mouth the closest passer-by to finally make them shut up. Ultimately, Will had to choose between dealing with the unwanted contacts and the debilitating loudness, and he chose the latter, bringing both his hands over his ears and pressing as much as he could, both to keep the noises out of his skull and to feel the controlled pressure against it.

          That was only once he closed his eyes as tightly as he could that he felt a hand grabbing his elbow and dragging him forward. Will stumbled for a couple of steps before being able to keep up. The grip guiding him through the crowd was doing so with confidence as if, by being a part of it, it could travel within it freely and Will, relieved to at least be in motion and step out of the maddeningly still loop, let himself be guided against the flow of bodies and noises.

          Ultimately, he opened his eyes to see the exit door a few feet away, a dark halo of relief in this overly bright and tumultuous world.

          Breaking free from the hand gripping him, he rushed forward, pushing out of his way two witches who had just entered. He shoved himself shoulder first into the door and finally stumbled into the street, free from that hellish overwhelmness.

          In contrast, the street was darker and more silent than he remembered but Will felt as if he had brought the chaos with him, the memory of the sounds pounding inside his head as loudly as the sounds themselves, his clothes made of sandpaper still scraping his skin.

          He was about to sit down right where he was, in the middle of the street, but the hand was back on his elbow, preventing him from falling down.

          Will looked up and realized without surprise that Hannibal was by his side, his eyes expressionlessly detailing their environment. Without a word, he guided Will toward another side of the street, a small recess leading to a narrow stair and a more isolated and shadowed parallel alley where the Empath, out of everyone's way, could freely lean against the wall.

"Sorry..." Will felt the urge to whisper.

          Hannibal didn't answer. He knew better than to produce any added sound.

          Slowly, Will let himself slide down the wall until he was sitting on the street. Through his shirt and pants, he could feel the coldness of the stones numbing his skin, desensitizing it to the scratching and the constriction. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on that growing numbness, shutting down every other information his brain had been attacked with. Progressively, he began to notice that, once the echoes of the former noises were being ignored, nothing was left at all. Will couldn't hear the constant footsteps of passers-by walking down the alley or even the wind whispering between the high chimneys above their heads. The lack of ambient noises was telling him that Hannibal had probably casted a spell isolating them from the rest of the world.

"Sorry," Will muttered again despite himself.

"Don't."

          Hannibal's voice was low and of an unwavering steadiness, resonating like a white noise in the back of Will's mind. His face was blank and unmoving, his eyes unreadable, effectively blocking Will's ignited Empathy, sending back signals as white and soothing as his voice.

          Will sighed and, crossing his legs in front of him, he turned on his left to sit in the same sense as the stair, resting his feet two steps below him.

"Their store really sucks," Will said with an unamused smile, his eyes stubbornly fixed on the greyness of the stones under him.

          Hannibal seemed to consider the steps for a second before finally sitting down by Will's side.

“Do you want me to touch you?” he asked cordially.

          Will hesitated for a second, carefully considering the idea. The stone and the shadow had cooled his skin and he couldn’t feel as much against it anymore. Slowly, he nodded, ready to tell Hannibal to back off if it turned out to be more than he could bear.

          In a controlled and predictable way, Hannibal leaned forward, putting his arms around Will, first lightly, their weight barely noticeable, and when Will let his head fall on his boyfriend’s shoulder, Hannibal tightened his embrace, effectively driving a wedge of flesh between the Empath and the rest of the world. That was more bearable than Will had feared. The heat of Hannibal’s hug was warming him up at a pleasant pace, slowly bringing some moderate sensations back, while promising him he wouldn’t be assaulted by any of the crushing threats that he had met in the store. Will closed his eyes, breathing in that familiar perfume of zests let loose in the wind, hearing the steady, unwavering beating of that heart he knew so well. He focused only on what his senses could capture of Hannibal who was forming the whole of his current environment. Finally at ease, he let every other thought out of his mind.

          For a long time after that, Will remained silent. He had felt the urge to apologize and explain, but Hannibal had accepted none of these two interactions and Will could now enclose himself in silence and in his soulmate’s embrace, which was all he truly wanted. Hannibal matched his quietness diligently, and the two soulmates remained there, in each other’s arms, letting the coldness of the shadowed alley numb their skin where they didn’t have the touch of their lover to protect it.

          Will was not unacquainted with that kind of situation. That familiar overwhelmness. He had known it before. In depth. It had been a major problem of his as he was growing up. And it had been one of the first symptom that had led to his diagnostic. It had been his closest companion for most of his life, he knew how to deal with it. How to avoid gazes to not get stuck in other people's brains, how to stay in the periphery of groups to not be dragged into their energy, how to flee from crowds where noises and touches were such a common currency. However, he couldn't remember a single incident of that sort since he had met Hannibal.

          The strange, foreign boy had quietened the whole world the very first time they had met. The void behind his eyes, the latency of his power, the silent ring of his words, Hannibal was an antiworld of his own, one that had soothed his senses, in lieu of his morality.

          Will hadn’t even feared overwhelmness since they had met, not in that fashion anyway. Maybe emotionally, or even magically. But his senses had been the least of his problems, so much so that he had entered this place - one he would have never come close to, three years ago - without a worry in his mind.

          Though he was not unfamiliar with it, what had just happened had taken him by surprise.

"It had been a while since the last time."

          He felt the urge to say something. Not necessarily to explain, since Hannibal wouldn't have it, but at least to word it. His voice, echoing against Hannibal’s neck and chest, was coming back to him, as if an answer to his own thought.

"I don't think we knew each other then," Hannibal stated.

          Yet he had reacted to it as if it was something they already shared. And maybe it was. Hannibal knew Will too intimately to have to witness in order to know.

"I don't know why today," Will said, his eyes detailing Hannibal’s skin that was slightly pulsing over his jugular.

"It was a terribly noisy and disorganized store."

"Yeah, but still. Didn't know it would still make me feel like that. I thought I was past that."

"Why would you be?"

"I don't know. I’ve changed a lot since I met you."

"You did. But power and agency don't mean insensitivity. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact."

"You're one to talk. You're not the most sensitive guy I know."

"I am very sensitive, Will. My sensitivity simply lies in another bed than most."

          Maybe. Still, Will had some trouble associating that singular sensitivity of his with power. No matter how many times he had been faced with that undeniable fact. The second he lost control of himself, it didn't feel like power anymore, simply like stabs in his brain.

          After a while and once he was feeling more in controlled again, he slowly detached himself from Hannibal, nearly reluctantly, and looked around.

"What's that?" he asked after a while, pointing at the stair and the path to which it led.

"Knockturn Alley."

"Never heard that name. It's part of the Diagon Alley shopping thing?"

"Yes. And no. A variation, let's say. It is also a shopping area, but for less respectable goods. Knockturn Alley welcomes shops in need of greater discretion and more selective clientele."

"Can we see?"

"Of course. It is a shopping street."

          Will didn't mind strolling into darkness for a while. The light of the day and the noises of life could wait for now. He still held some reproach against them.

          Hannibal stood up and, extending his hand to Will, he helped his friend on his feet. They then both walked down the stairs and the alley after them.

          If Diagon Alley, in its brighter days, was everything like the Place Cachée, then Knockturn Alley was its negative. The street, narrow, tortuous, with irregular cobblestones, was simply not made to welcome many people at once. Will and Hannibal formed the smallest group possible and, each time they would cross the path of another duo, they would fill the street to its brim and have to skilfully dodge each other.

          They couldn't see the sky at all, the shops' higher floors often built partly above the street, leaving the pavement in a constant darkness. Despite the fact that they were in the middle of the day, complete portions of the street were lit with oil lamps and, the few times the sky was visible in between the old wooden buildings, it looked strange and morose, too shy to truly pierce through.

          The people were also different than in the main alley. None were strolling and letting curiosity and leisure guide their aimless paths from storefront to storefront. For starters, there were very few shops that actually had a window display, instead hiding the nature of their goods behind closed doors and dangling signs. Ultimately, there were only two types of people on that street, Will realized. The few outdoor sellers were the first one, lurking in the recesses of the street, calling for them from the shadows, shooting promises as they were approaching and insults as they were continuing their path. The second type was the customers who were walking from shops to shops with hurried steps. They knew where they were going and for what purpose, leaving them with no time to waste on the street. Unlike the sellers, these people would not interact with Will and Hannibal, quite the contrary, always avoiding their gaze and often hiding their head under hoods or scarves.

"Is it illegal to be here?" Will wondered, feeling that the leisure of their stroll and the display of their faces were at odds in that alley.

"To be here, no. To buy here, it depends on what you buy exactly. And to whom."

"There's legal stuff here?"

"All shops have a façade of legal goods in case of control. But no one is here for them. Buying on Knockturn Alley is not illegal, but there are few legal things that you will be able to buy here."

"You've been there before?"

"Yes. Last winter break. To replenish my potions ingredients. It is actually one of these few legal things you can buy. There are numerous ingredients that can't be obtained legally in the wild but can be sold legally in a store. That kind of goods, you find them on Knockturn Alley."

          Their stroll had brought them to a part of the street with older and bigger shops than what they had seen previously. The buildings there seemed to look down on others with the disdain of elders, and less street sellers could be found here. It looked to Will like the birthplace of the street, with its noblest and best-established names gathered together.

"Here is my favourite shopping place, Diagon and Knockturn alike."

          Will turned around to see what Hannibal was pointing at. It was a tall and grim building, like the others, with its grey front and its dusty windows that completely obscured the view. A grinding sign on a rusty rod was displaying the name of the store in tired letters.

Cassandra's Tales

"What does it sell?"

"History."

          Without any prompting, Hannibal walked to the door, opened it and stepped inside. Will hesitated for a second.

“You won’t find here any of the torments you found in the Weasleys’ shop,” Hannibal said, encouragingly.

          Will sighed then followed.

          The shop looked exactly how Will could have guessed from the outside. It was higher than it was wide, with shelves of warped wood that had to have been brown at some point of their history but were now grey of dust. No sunray could pierce through the windows and the heavy curtains that protected them and the few oil lamps casted such dim light that it was hard to truly see the goods in the ambient darkness. The silence around them was absolute and their steps making the wooden floor creak under their weight was the only sound disturbing it.

          As he was detailing the objects around, Will found himself puzzled by the exact theme of the shop. He could see mismatched items, some necklaces and gems, a couple of furniture, old music boxes, and even a living spider under a bell jar, a white castle of webs around it. There were no more than twenty objects or so around them, yet none of them made sense.

"What do you mean, they're selling history?" Will asked, walking to the jar to have a closer look at the living being.

          The eight eyes stared back at him angrily.

"Most of the shops around here sell magical artefacts. That was the original aim of Knockturn Alley. Borgin and Burkes, The Sorcerer's Shelf or Morgan and daughters, to name only the most famous, are more or less the same shops. However, this one specializes in historical artefacts. No common objects here, no Hand of Glory, no Shrunken Heads, no cursed candles. Only unique items that have gone through the centuries and have brought back with them a heavy history."

“You don’t buy stuff here to use them. You buy just for the sake of having them.”

“Yes, that is the idea.”

"What's this guy's history?" Will asked, pointing at the spider.

          Hannibal walked to them and leaned forward to detail the inhabitant of the bell jar.

"It is a Maledictus," he said right away, without the shadow of a hesitation.

"What's that?"

"A carrier of a blood curse that will progressively turn them into an animal. I don't know who this person was before, but it used to be a human being. I am guessing of noble extraction or else it wouldn't have a place in this selective shop."

          Will avoided the eight angry eyes at once after hearing that, an uneasiness settling in his gut.

"Is it still... human? I mean inside. Like... in its brain. Can it understand its situation?"

          Hannibal's smile answered for him, and Will turned away to never look back. He had no desire to empathize with any of that. It could end up being far too relatable.

"You wanna buy something? Because, let me tell you, we’re not having a human pet spider."

"I figured. And no, we are just having a look around. I wanted to show you around. I assure you, it is an interesting place. Come with me."

          Hannibal guided Will to another corner of the shop. Here, on the wall, a large painting had been hung. At first, Will had simply thought it was here to decorate the place and hide the stains on the wall, but he thought better of it once he realized how ugly it actually was.

          Thought as a portrait, the canvas showed a silhouette of something that may have been human at some point. Will could definitely spot a head, but it was so disfigured and inhuman that he wasn't certain what he was looking at. It looked like the face had begun to dry and rot, the flesh underneath melting to the point of letting the skull protrude through it. The hair, white, thin and dead, was spurting from the minuscule head like long broken spider legs. The grey skin, infected by old age and fungi, was so loose that it was falling from the shrivelled face and forming a floating bag under the shin. It looked exactly like an ill-fitting mask made out of someone else's face.

"Charming," Will commented. "Really ties the room together."

"Do you know what this is?"

"A portrait?"

"What kind of portrait?"

          Will tried to detail it more closely, but he couldn't see anything else but an ugly face looking back at him from beyond death.

"I'm supposed to know?"

"It was the eponymous object of a muggle book."

          Now, that rang a bell.

"Yeah, that portrait's story... With the ageing guy. Can't remember the name."

"Dorian Gray."

"Yeah. That guy. So... That's Dorian Gray?"

          Will tried to see something human and alive in the portrait but failed to do so.

"Not exactly. Not by that name, at least. But it is a portrait enclosing a witch’s or a wizard's ageing."

"It's not a common thing, is it?"

"It is the unique occurrence of such a magic feat. However, the portrait is so old and the face so unrecognizable that no one knows whose portrait it is."

"You mean, the person in the portrait is still out there."

"Yes."

"Maybe they died another way."

"The portrait is still ageing," Hannibal stated, his gaze detailing the art with appreciation. "Whoever they are, they are still alive and beautiful, sharing their days with their fear of ever seeing their own portrait."

          Hannibal's eyes were shining with pure glee at the mere thought of that fate, the rare liveliness of his face contrasting with the dead skull he was watching.

          Will didn't share Hannibal's joy. He could see why his friend was artistically pleased by that gothic horror, but Will found that fate to be a profound tragedy.

          There was nothing human left on that portrait and he suspected that it was the same for the original person.

          That specific line of thought brought by association another thought in the forefront of his mind.

"Hannibal?"

"Yes?"

"What does counter-human mean?"

"I already answered that question."

"You answered Hermione. Not me."

          For a moment, Hannibal simply continued to observe the portrait in silence, as if he was considering the idea of not answering at all. Which was a very unusual behaviour for him. Ultimately, he decided against ignoring Will and gave a more sincere answer than the one he had given Hermione.

"It is the translation of an adjective that qualifies a specific place."

"What specific place?"

          Once again, Hannibal remained strangely silent, certainly choosing his words with an extra care.

"Hannibal? What place?"

"The Counter-Human Archives."

"What's that?"

"A place much like this one, except its artefacts are not on display."

"It stores dark objects?"

"Each country has its own way of managing its darkness. The Ministry in this country has secret departments. We caught glimpses of some of them, back in June. The US wizards have facilities. In Lithuania, we have protected archives, guarded by appointed wizards."

"Why did Malfoy react so badly to it?"

"The objects of these archives are not studied, like they are here. They are kept aside and used by the Wizard King in case of need. They are a looming threat over the head of the King's enemies."

"Hannibal... Are you the Lithuanian King?"

          Hannibal, finally distracted from the portrait, laughed at once at the mere idea.

"No, Will. I assure you. I am many things, but not the Wizard-King."

          Will still felt like there was something Hannibal was purposefully keeping silent. He wouldn't offer Will outright lies, but there was something missing for sure. Omission had always been Hannibal’s sin of choice.

"Then why was Malfoy scared, if you're not the one meant to use them?"

"Because even if I won't use these archives, Cissy knows they reflect my abilities. It was simply an allegory of other tools, those at my disposal. She knows I am no schoolboy, she could simply use a subtle reminder."

          No. There was something else. But Will knew that, the more he asked and pushed, the deeper Hannibal could bury his seeds of confusion. Better to keep his suspicions to himself for now, and let Hannibal unravel his threats in due time.

"I see," he simply shrugged. "I guess it worked. Though don't go acting all weird and all around the others."

"Says the one who mentioned Bellatrix in front of everyone."

"Yeah... I see your point... Anyway, let's go."

          Hannibal's eyes lingered one last time on the portrait, certainly taking a mental picture of the art on display, he then walked toward the door, but he didn’t leave without bowing his head at the human spider, to wish it goodbye with the distinction required in educated company. The pleased irony behind that gesture was obvious and the spider’s eyes shone with anger. Will rushed behind Hannibal to not be left alone in front of the silenced human being.

"Is that painting a Horcrux?" Will asked, once they were back to the street.

"No," Hannibal answered. "Old age is being locked away, nothing else. And is not an Horcrux any displaced soul. An Horcrux, by definition, is a receptacle welcoming a fragment of a soul. Not a complete one. Not everything concerning souls is to be named an Horcrux. It is not a broad, fit-all term."

"Sorry, didn't want to disrespect the word. I thought... Wait... Isn't that...?"

          Three familiar silhouettes were walking ahead of them.

"Yes," Hannibal nodded.

"Hey" Will called out. "Guys!"

          The three silhouettes turned around, and Will was able to say for certain that it was Hermione, Harry and Ron, who had just been interrupted in the middle of their lively yet whispered conversation. As soon as they recognized Will and Hannibal, they stopped to wait for them.

"Funny," Ron mused, "each time you disappear for more than a minute, we find you in the sketchiest of places."

"You mean the place where you three currently happen to be too?" Hannibal pointed out.

"Fair point, mate."

"Where were you?" Harry asked. "I wanted to warn you, guys, but I couldn't find you anywhere in the store. We had to leave without you."

"Warn us about what?" Will wondered, ignoring the question altogether.

"It's Malfoy. He is a Death Eater."

"Harry thinks he is a Death Eater," Ron corrected. "But as I was saying just before you arrived, You-Know-Who would have no use for a prick like Malfoy."

"Why do you think he is a Death Eater?" Will asked.

"Harry saw him walking down the street, toward Knockturn Alley," Hermione told them with more precision, "and we followed him. He went to Borgin and Burkes, and talked about a cupboard there. At some point, he showed his arm to Burkes, and Harry believes he showed the mark of the Death Eaters... But Harry, Ron's right. What would be the point of recruiting someone like Malfoy? He is sixteen."

"Voldemort tried to recruit Will last year," Harry pointed out. "And he was younger than Malfoy is today."

"Will is an Empath. You-Know-Who needed his abilities. Malfoy doesn't have any abilities apart from telling everything to his father."

"Maybe that's about that," Harry exclaimed. "Maybe, with his father on the run, he is made to do something instead of him."

"His father is on the run, not dead. He can still do whatever his master wants him to do."

"Nothing that involves being in the open. Malfoy can come here, his father can't."

"Harry, I really don't think Malfoy is that much of a danger. I know you hate him, but that doesn't make him a Death Eater."

          Hannibal and Will had remained out of the conversation, not having witnessed any of the events that their three friends were talking about.

          Will didn't know what to think. It wouldn't be such a surprise to learn that, following his father's footsteps and his family's natural leaning, Draco had joined the ranks of Voldemort and his minions. But Hermione and Ron were not completely wrong. What point would someone like Draco serve? He hadn't struck Will as someone gifted with any uncommon ability. He was good in class, and a decent duellist, but nothing that could be of use to someone like Voldemort who played in another category altogether. The only specificity that Will could see in Draco and no other Death Eaters was that Draco, unlike Voldemort himself, had access to Hogwarts.

          And that was something Voldemort could indeed crave for.

"Listen," Ron interrupted, "debating whoever is or is not a Death Eaters can wait. But we should go back before my parents start to freak out. Malfoy's gone anyway, there is no need to move in here. I’m not too fond of the neighbourhood."

          They all agreed and began to walk up Knockturn Alley to find their way back to Diagon Alley.

          But Will was still thinking about what had just been told to him. If Harry was right, then a question needed to be asked. How badly could end the presence of a Death Eater inside their school?

          Certainly not as bad as a pair of zealous Cannibals.

          There was probably nothing to worry about.

          At the very least for Will and Hannibal.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 4

Unprayed Hallows

          The days at the Weasleys couldn't smell more of summer and vacation.

          The temperatures were high and suffocating, and the large, unclouded sun, day after day of that clear blue sky, had burnt the fields and dried the rivers around the Burrow, creating that evocative yellow landscape and filling the air with that characteristic scent of smoke that all associated with aestival freedom.

          Unlike last year, during which Harry, Ron and Hermione had spent their August cleaning up a house and worrying about a trial, they had time to waste and proceeded to do nothing but that. Harry, Ginny and Ron would spend their morning outside, making the most out of the coolest hours of the day to fly around and practice Quidditch in the fields. Harry was trying his best to convince Ron to try entering the team this year too, but with the successive failures of last year, the very insecure Keeper was unsure he could stomach it again. They would then spend their afternoon inside, in the coolness of the shaded house, playing chess and ignoring their homework. They now knew what classes they could resume once back at Hogwarts, but still didn't feel too motivated to work on the last subjects they had left untouched. Ultimately, and though Harry mentioned a couple of times again his theory about Malfoy, he and Ron were able to enjoy the last month of vacation before the start of the new term.

          Hannibal and Will, however, did not join in on the fun. Hannibal was not a flyer, and Will had stated in unambiguous terms to a very disappointed Harry – who had become the new captain of the team over the summer – that he would not take part in the try-outs this year, having no desire to compete. Though the two boys would sometimes take long walks outside, Hannibal and Will mostly spent their time inside, in Fleur's company, much to Molly's relief. Hannibal and Fleur seemed to have become quick friends – if they weren't already before – and, sharing a similar kind of snobbiness and sense of superiority, they didn't seem to mind it in the other and would get along perfectly, speaking hours away in french, while cooking or cleaning for the rest of the household.

          Will would mostly tag along. Though he didn't seem to care much about Fleur, except for the usual effect she had on most boys and that she had less and less on him, Will had been fiercely adamant about spending his time with Hannibal. Or maybe it was Hannibal who was fiercely adamant. It was hard to tell with those two, but the end result was the same, it was nearly impossible to catch one without the other close by. The only times they would part would be for a couple of hours a day, when Will would walk Fang in the surrounding fields, playing with him and caring for him. It was obvious that Hannibal was not fond of the dog at all, and Will was thoughtful enough to keep Fang away from his boyfriend.

          The house would also welcome many outsiders, staying for a couple of days or for a simple cup of tea. Often, Tonks and Lupin would stay with them for a meal, trying badly to conceal the growing relationship between them. Moody or Kingsley would also stop to talk to Molly and Arthur. Ultimately, a lot of members of the Order would come by and enjoy a time of quietude and companionship before getting back to their task and worries.

          The whole house had an air of vacation and carefreeness.

          Hermione could see that. Yet, she couldn't feel it herself. Let alone partake in it.

          She had been feeling apart from everything since the beginning of the summer. The first few weeks had been the only ones during which she had been able to rest. She had come home, to her parents, and had left the whole magical world behind.

          Her mother and her father had realized that something had happened. They had last seen their daughter a year ago, bright and happy, eager to run forward, and had gotten her back silent and uncertain, waiting the days away on the couch. They had felt at once it was not the time for questions and had simply done their best to be there.

          Hermione had bathed in the sense of security that came with them, clinging to them in ways she hadn't done since her early childhood. She would wake them up in the morning, curl up against her father during their movie time, sit in the kitchen while they were cooking dinner. And sometimes beg her mother to lay down in bed with her to keep the nightmares at bay.

          Her parents had indulged, without a question, and if their daughter would stand up in the middle of the meal to hug one of them, they would hug her back, and wait for her to be ready to talk.

          However, Hermione had left before that. Three weeks into July, she had received a letter from Ron inviting her over. She hadn't wanted to leave but hadn’t dared to refuse the invitation either. It felt too much like abandonment. And she had thought about Ginny, and how Hermione wanted to be there for her. Therefore, she had left her parents to go to the Burrow.

          Things had become harder ever since.

          Though she wouldn't admit it aloud, living with Ginny was difficult. They were all grieving, through different ways, but Hermione quickly realized she couldn't stomach other people's pain. Most of the time, it was fine. Ginny would go out, play around, chat with everyone, be her usual outgoing and snarky self, and in these moments, Hermione could breathe a bit easier. But then, at random times of the day or the night, Ginny would be hit by the fact that her best friend was gone, and start to cry and scream. But unwilling to do so in front of others, she had found in Hermione the privileged companionship to her suffering. Hermione could understand that. They had both been left behind when the boys had been able to reach the upper floor, and Hermione had been there for Luna's last moments.

          But she couldn't help it, nonetheless.

          Hermione was physically repulsed by Ginny's mourn. She would stoically endure it, for the sake of the girl, but each time Ginny would cry on her shoulder, she could sense the bile travel up her throat, and stagnate on the back of her tongue. Most of the time, after Ginny had passed out from exhaustion, Hermione wasn't able to keep it in any longer and would rush to the nearest toilets to throw it all up.

          It was guilt, she knew. Each of Ginny's tears felt like an accusation, and a pointed finger, forcing Hermione to face her own conscience.

          She had relived that evening over and over again, detailing every second of that scene in her thoughts and her dreams, wondering how things could have been different, what other outcomes could have been forced, how responsible she was of what had happened. But her most pressing question was why she had been able to walk out, when neither Luna nor her killer had been able to.

          And that line of thought always came with a stab of anger. Why was she the one that had to face grief and guilt? How was it fair?

          It was all those thoughts, and emotions, and wonderings that were keeping her away from the others. Not a lot still made much sense to her. Flying around, gossiping about Lupin and Tonks, watching the scenery... Everything seemed forced and unreal, as it had no place in Hermione's current world.

          And she couldn't wrap her mind around the fact that everyone else could indulge in carefreeness. She couldn’t begin to fathom how they were even physically able to. However, she had no desire to deprive anyone of their much-deserved break, and she found it much easier to keep all her guilt and anger to herself. It was easier for them, but also for her, she was certain. Talking was hard when nausea was lurking so close to her throat.

          She nearly went the whole summer without addressing what was on her mind with anyone. But it was without considering that she was now sharing her days with a boy slightly more perspective and sensitive than Harry or Ron.

          It was two days before the start of the terms. Hermione was sitting on the wooden floor of the mezzanine looking over the barn. She was leaning against the wall, ignoring the heads of the old rusty nails pressing against her back. It was a place she had found refuge in during the summer, lying to Mrs Weasley by saying she would go outside and lying to the boys by saying she would remain inside. The barn was mostly used as a storage area and, even the very few times Molly had come here to fetch something, she had never looked up to see Hermione sitting at the top of the wooden stairs.

          Here, she was able to freely dwell on everything occupying her mind, without worrying anyone nor casting a moody shadow over their holidays. It wasn't a great place. It was uncomfortable and dark, with a persistent smell of humidity, an ant colony and not much place to stretch one's legs. But it was isolated. In more than a month, the only one that had been able to find her, apart from the ants, was Fang, who had then often proceeded to walk up the fragile steps to lie by her side and rest his head on her knee. She hadn't minded the company and liked to think it was Fang's way of showing support. After all, he had to suffer an absence similar to Hermione's at the moment. And unlike Ginny's, Fang's grief was not something Hermione could turn into an accusation.

          Today was not any different, as Fang was passively drooling on the fabric of her jeans, while she was absentmindedly patting his ears.

"Fang? Where are you buddy?"

          Hermione, lost in the depths of her thinking, was suddenly brought back to herself, not so much because of Will's voice echoing nearby but because of the abruptness with which Fang raised his head, his ears tensed, his eyes wide open, his muzzle sniffing the air around.

          Before Hermione could do anything, Fang barked loudly, giving away his position, and hers with it.

          It didn't take long for Will to locate them both, and, as he entered the barn, his eyes found Hermione and Fang at once.

"Oh, sorry."

"That's alright."

          There was a second of silence during which none of them knew what to add, before Hermione put an end to it.

"Fang's here," she said unnecessarily as the dog was loudly whizzing.

"Yeah. There's some food for him so..."

"Ok."

          After yet another second, Will finally moved toward the stairs and climbed them up. Fang sat up and turned around to greet the boy, his tail waving around.

          Will grabbed his collar and gently began to guide him toward the steps before he stopped a couple of feet away from the stairs. He seemed to hesitate for a second, before he turned around and considered Hermione in silence.

          Hermione, her eyes on the opposite wall, pretended to not see his hesitation, as to alleviate the awkwardness of their silence, but Will finally talked again.

"May I sit down?"

          Hermione bit back a wince.

"I'd rather not," she dared to say.

"Fine," he nodded. "Fair enough."

          Yet, he didn't walk away, apparently giving some more thought to that very short conversation of theirs.

"May I ask why?" he questioned after a while.

          She breathed in and slowly breathed out, her eyes still carefully away from Will's.

"I don't think it would be fair."

          She was already suffering from bearing witness to Ginny's grief, she couldn't do it to others. Especially not to someone like Will. She feared that, if they met eyes, he would be infected with the same worries that were plaguing her. And there was simply no point in having one less person enjoy summer.

"Wouldn't be fair to you or to me?"

"To you."

"Why?"

"It's just... you don't have to deal with that. Not with... you know."

"Ah," Will said, finally understanding, something strangely akin to amusement in his voice. "My condition."

"Sorry," Hermione rushed to say in embarrassment. "I don't mean it that way."

"Of course you don't. No one ever do. But Hermione, I am more than able to handle myself, you know. You don't have to wonder about what I can or can't take."

"It just doesn't seem right to go to you with that kind of stuff."

"If you think you have to go to me for me to pick up on it, you are not quite getting how it all works."

          Hermione didn't have any answer to that, her eyes falling on her hands, crossed above her knees.

          Will slowly walked back to her and let himself fall by her side, leaning against the wall before breathing out a long sigh.

"You're perfectly entitled to loneliness and isolation. There's nothing inherently wrong with any of them. But if you're doing it for my sake, it becomes something I have a problem with Hermione. It's fine if you don't want to talk about it, but I won't leave until you've talked about something. Anything."

          Hermione tried to find something mindless and harmless to bring up, but she couldn't find anything. Nothing mindless nor harmless left in her brain for her to use. Her thoughts couldn't turn away from what was bothering them, and maybe Will knew that perfectly well.

          Fang walked in circles for a second, detailing the floor to find a place for him, and finally laid down between them, his head on Will's lap, his paws on Hermione's.

          Maybe, she was thinking about it the wrong way. Maybe Will wasn’t more fragile because he was more sensitive. Maybe he was stronger precisely because he was more sensitive.

          Who but him could be able to deal with all the horrors that could be on one’s mind? Who but him had seen them all already? Surely, to someone like him, what was poisoning her from the inside was but another day under the sun.

“How do you manage guilt?”

          For a moment, her question floated in the air, followed only by a deaf echo.

          Someone could have thought that Will had simply not heard what had just been said. But Hermione knew better.

          He had heard perfectly.

“Guilt…” he repeated to himself.

          Hermione felt the urge to add to her question, as to justify its legitimacy. At least, to give another justification than his condition.

“You killed someone, didn’t you?”

          It sounded harsh and maybe it was, but Hermione was not so careful about it now that it was something she had in common with him.

“How do you move on from that?” she asked.

“Are you asking for that Death Eater or for Luna?”

“Does it matter?” she barely whispered.

“I guess not.”

          She finally dared to look at him. He had rested the back of his head against the wall; his eyes, traveling along the irregular frame supporting the roof, were lost, either in his thoughts or in his memories.

“All in all”, he began tentatively, “I think it all comes down to what is lost and what is kept. Then, it is up to you to decide which scale matters.”

“What do you mean?”

“What was lost, when I killed Dolarhyde, was Dolarhyde and, maybe, a bit of my innocence. What was kept was Hannibal, and the potential of our future together. At the scale of a world, it was a zero-sum game. A life is a life and Dolarhyde had as much to live as anyone else. But at my scale… Dolarhyde simply wasn’t worth Hannibal. It may sound bad, but it is a truth I am powerless against.”

“And, just like that, you could walk away from it all. Walk away from the guilt.”

“Ultimately… yes.”

          Hermione tried to give Will’s words a chance. To let them settle in her mind, but they would echo endlessly and lead to dark recesses where she didn’t want to venture.

“Where does that leave me?” she said bitterly. “The man is dead, and so is Luna.”

“It leaves you to mourn both what was lost and what should have been kept.”

“How is it fair?”

“It isn’t,” Will admitted.

          She was nearly relieved to hear him say those words aloud. She had tried to say them to herself, but it wasn’t as efficient. Her voice simply didn’t ring as clearly as his.

          And since they were there, she could as well say it all.

“Guilt’s easier than anger.”

          She didn’t know what she hoped Will would say. What was there to add, really? Her sentence was a statement, not a demand. Yet, she had to say it. And Will, certainly because he already knew what it was about, asked the exact question Hermione had wanted to answer aloud since the beginning of the summer.

“Who are you angry with?”

          The names she had repeated in her mind but had kept to herself for a month flew out of her mouth.

“Harry and Hannibal.”

“Harry for getting you in, Hannibal for not getting you out,” Will finished for her.

          To hear her hidden thoughts sound so clearly and so rightfully through Will’s words made her feel both acknowledged and ashamed.

“I know they don’t deserve it,” she stated right away. “Harry was manipulated by Voldemort, and Hannibal fought the best he could. But… I don’t know… They don’t deserve it.”

“Of course, they do.”

          Taken by surprise by Will’s unapologetic harshness, she raised her head and looked at him, but his eyes were still on the framework.

“Harry should have known better. You told him it was a trap. You always warn him, and he never listens. Had he considered your opinion to be as important as his, he would have never left for the Ministry. As for Hannibal, he had foreseen everything and had prevented nothing. He has valued his sense of entitlement above our lives, and you are the one left with the guilt. He entered the fight indeed, but not before Luna was already dead.”

          “Both of them could have prevented her death, yet none of them was there when it happened.”

“That’s what you think?” Hermione asked, her heart beating so quickly in her chest, she was feeling light-headed.

“That’s what you think, Hermione”, Will simply stated. “And it is not unjustified.”

          Hermione’s eyes fell back on her hands, playing with the fabric of her jeans. There was still the darker stain, where Fang had lazily drooled a few minutes earlier, and she drew its contours with the tip of her finger.

“I don’t want to be angry at them. There is no point to it. It won’t bring anything good nor fair.”

“Will being angry at yourself bring anything good or fair?”

          The answer to that question was obvious, yet that didn’t mean it was any easier for Hermione.

“You’re not angry?” she asked after a while.

“With whom?”

“Whoever.”

“Not really, no.”

“Luna’s dead and… you were after Bellatrix Lestrange, weren’t you? She is the one who… did that to Hannibal. The thing we’ve seen in Snape’s chambers. It’s her that you mentioned when you said to Hannibal that you wanted to continue with us, rather than go back to Hogwarts. That’s also because of her that you stayed behind when we all ran…”

          For a moment, Hermione believed Will wouldn’t answer. He still had his eyes on the ceiling, but they were still and unveiled. He wasn’t lost in his thoughts. He was very much present yet silent.

          However, when Hermione had believed that the conversation was over, he finally acknowledged it.

“Yes. That is why.”

          Hermione felt her mind racing at once. She had wondered all summer, had needed to know, and had been left in the dark. But maybe, now, she could get her answer.

“What happened, Will? Did she really run?”

          She turned around completely to face him, her eyes unwavering from his.

“You can tell me, Will. Whatever happened, you can tell me.”

          Will looked back at her, his pupils between blue and green, as changeable as his gaze was fixed.

          He let two seconds of silence pass by, taking the time to hear her sentence fully, and then:

“Yes, Hermione. She really ran.”

          Hermione knew something was happening at this moment, but she couldn’t tell what. Or why it was important. Nor could she tell why she was sensing a discreet kind of disappointment sneaking in between her guts.

“Children! Quick, come inside! We have guests!”

          Molly’s voice, magically amplified, had echoed through the fields to warn everyone outside.

“Isn’t there always guests in this house?” Will frowned.

          Nonetheless, he got on his feet, and extended a hand to help Hermione in turn. They walked down the fragile stairs and crossed the courtyard toward the house. However, they had not yet reached inside when Fang began to bark loudly a couple of times before rushing toward the open door.

          Will and Hermione followed closely after and met in the living room the source of the dog’s enthusiasm.

          Three men were standing by the table, not the usual guests indeed. One of them, taller than the others by more than a few inches, had knelt down and was now showering Fang with kisses and caresses.

“Hagrid!” Hermione exclaimed while running toward her friend.

          Hagrid caught her in time, and they hugged each other with glee.

“That’s good to see you!” Hagrid mumbled in his beard.

          Hermione stepped back and turned to the two other guests that had remained behind Hagrid.

“Professor Dumbledore? Sirius? What are you doing here? Something happened?”

“It is a social visit, Miss Granger, nothing to be worried about.”

          Before she could ask further question, the boys entered the room

"Mom," Ron's voice mumbled from the entrance door, "we were in the middle of a g..."

"Sirius!"

          Hermione stepped aside just in time to let Harry run to his godfather, both embracing the other with joy and relief.

          Sirius didn't seem to have gotten any better since the last time they had seen him. Loneliness was getting to him, had been for years now, but the last year had worsened his condition. Hermione wasn't sure he could stand the confinement for yet another year.

"What are you doing here, sir?" Ron asked, repeating Hermione's question.

"There is not much vacation time left. Rubeus needed to get Fang back, Sirius wanted to see you before you left for Hogwarts, I thought we could do both at once."

          Dumbledore looked around, detailing Ron, Harry, Ginny and Hermione, before his eyes settled on Will.

"Where is Mr Lecter?"

"I don't know."

"Is he still in the house?"

"I don't know, I'm not his mom."

"He is upstairs, with Fleur," Mrs Weasley answered for Will. "I don't know what they are doing, but I saw them while passing by. Do you want me to call him?"

"No, that won't be needed. Thank you, Molly."

"Harry..."

          It was Hagrid who had interrupted the conversation at hand, and everyone turned toward him.

"I couldn't answer because... You know... But I received your letter and... I wanted to thank you. F-for Grawpy."

          Hagrid's emotion was obvious, in his voice and in his wet eyes, and Fang whined loudly before shoving his head against Hagrid's large palms.

"It's nothing," Harry said, his eyes on the floor. "It's normal. You both deserved more."

"It's not nothing, and I am so glad to have friends as good as yall."

          He turned to Will, who was awkwardly standing behind everyone, his eyes resolutely on the ceiling.

"And thank you to you too, Will. For your help, and for taking care of Fang."

"Fang is a pleasure to be around."

"I can attest that Mr Graham has a way with dogs," Professor Dumbledore said with a smile. "Fang found himself a new friend."

"May I say goodbye?" Will asked.

"Sure thing. But you can visit him during the breaks. He'll be thrilled."

          Will didn't answer and simply walked to Fang before kneeling next to him. Excited to see someone of his size, Fang jumped into Will's arms, whining for caresses and attention, which Will delivered thoroughly.

"You'll be good, right?" he asked softly.

          Fang yapped and licked Will's face.

"Yeah, I know you will."

          Will laid a last kiss on top of Fang's head before standing up and backing away.

"I'll be upstairs if you need me," he said without a look for anyone, especially not for Fang, and he quickly left the room.

          Hermione knew it was a flight, away from the goodbyes. She could tell how attached Will was to the dog. She had seen it since the first day Will had brought him to their Common Room. And ever since then, the two of them had barely parted, and Will had been just as loving with him as he was with creatures in general. Certainly, saying goodbye to Fang was not something pleasant and, the same way Hermione had kept her worries and struggles away from prying eyes, Will had quickly left the room as soon as Hagrid had taken his dog back.

          Hermione detailed with sadness the door behind which Will had disappeared. She wished she could do for him half the things he had done for her.

"How about we all have lunch together?" Mrs Weasley exclaimed with enthusiasm. "Certainly, Professor Dumbledore, you will be able to stay with us for a couple of hours. I've baked some Yorkshire puddings!"

"You know how to convince me, Molly."

          As everyone was quickly preparing the table for the meal, Hermione couldn't take her mind off Will. He had tried to be here for her, earlier today, sitting by her side and waiting for her words. She knew she couldn't stomach not offering the same. Apologizing too softly for anyone to be able to hear her, she left the living-room and walked up the stairs, looking for Will. In the corridor, she met Fleur, going the opposite way.

"We're about to eat," Hermione told her.

"Tell me it's not one of these puddings again," Fleur answered, rolling her eyes.

          Nonetheless, she made her way downstairs and Hermione was left alone to progress. The door of Percy's room, at the end of the hall, was opened and Hermione walked to it.

          But before she could knock or let her presence be known, she was able to catch a glimpse of the inside of the room. And Will was not alone.

          He was lying on the bed, his arms around Hannibal's waist, his head resting on his chest. Hannibal, who was lying on his back, was leaving his hand to run against Will's shoulders, in comforting and repetitive gestures. But, as he was facing the doorframe in which she was standing, his red eyes and Hermione's brown ones met for a second. He didn't acknowledge her presence. He didn't say a word. He simply looked at her, his hands caressing Will's shoulders.

          And Hermione politely backed away. She had been stupid to assume Will needed company.

          Will was never truly alone. Hannibal was always here for him, in ways Hermione would never be.

"Stephen won't be coming back."

"Neither will Sue, from what I’ve heard..."

          Ernie and Megan had whispered their truth with caution, as if they were composed of dangerous words.

          Will, who had kept his eyes on the window of the compartment, behind which he could admire the large fields of the English countryside, turned his head towards the other students sitting around him.

"Why?" he asked, frowning.

          He had never heard that it was a common practice to drop out of school after the OWLs. He had only heard about the Weasley twins doing such a thing and even then, it was a peculiar case.

"They are afraid, I'm guessing," Hannah answered. "Or their parents are. They don't want their children away from home."

"Stephen even told me they were moving out of the country."

"His mother is a muggle," Ernie reminded them. "They fear what could happen to them."

"Isn't Hogwarts supposed to be a pretty safe place?" Will asked. "I'd think Stephen would be better off here than anywhere else."

"Fear does not always act according to reason," Hannibal pointed out. "And even then, people think that the mere presence of Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter will crystalize Voldemort's anger and desire for action."

          Most of the Hufflepuffs sitting around Will reacted to the name. Hannah and Justin gasped in fear, Wayne and Megan covered their mouth and Ernie winced. Only Susan didn't react, simply nodding along at the point Hannibal had just made.

          Will was now so used to Harry and his extensive use of the name that he had nearly forgotten the taboo surrounding it.

"Do you really have to say that name?" Justin asked, his arms hugging himself as if to provide a comforting contact.

"I find ‘You-Know-Who’ to be a very childish expression, and one that gives him an omnipresence in our thoughts that he does not deserve."

"Then, the Dark Lord?" Megan offered. "I heard some people calling him that."

"Lord by what right?"

          Will had often heard Hannibal referred to Voldemort as Lord, but only if it was preceded by a possessive adjective distancing the name from him. Voldemort was not a Dark Lord, he was their Dark Lord. Nothing to do with Hannibal who didn't acknowledge such authority.

"Sorry, Count sir," Susan smiled. "We didn't know that the legitimacy of nobility was such a sensitive subject for you."

          Hannibal accepted the mocking tone easily enough but still pointed out:

"Isn't your mother's brother a Lord? You should know that he had to do more than just state he was one."

"Really?" Ernie asked, turning toward Susan. "A real muggle Lord?"

"Yes," Susan nodded. "He is an Archbishop. That grants him lordship."

"Awesome!" Megan exclaimed. "How is it, to be a Lord?"

"I don't know. We don't really talk to him."

"How did you know about that?" Wayne asked Hannibal.

"Susan and I talked nobility on some occasions."

"And you're really a Count?" Hannah questioned, remembering what Susan had said earlier.

"It depends on who you ask. As a matter of officium, I don't have any role to serve. As a matter of laws, I am indeed a Count. By right of birth."

"Maybe You-Know-Who is also a Lord by right of birth?"

"Who was he, before he became You-Know-Who?" Hannah wondered. "Surely, it is not his birth name. No parents would call their child V... would call them like that."

“Or maybe that would explain why he became who he is now…”

          Will frowned. Orphy, lying on his lap, pinched his finger to remind him to caress him and Will instinctively resumed the small pats on his bird's head.

          But Hannah's question remained on the front of his mind. He didn't know much about Voldemort before he became Voldemort. The same way he didn't know much about Hannibal before he became Hannibal.

          But he knew from Harry that Voldemort had been at Hogwarts. And certainly, he had met Dumbledore there. What kind of boy had he been? And had Dumbledore been as wary of him then than he now was of Hannibal?

"Wait, isn't it Harry who said that You-Know-Who was the culprit behind the attacks that took place during our Second Year?" Justin said. "The basilisk, wasn't it him who controlled it?"

"I believe so..."

"Therefore... Wouldn't that make him the heir of Slytherin?"

"The heir of Slytherin?" Will repeated. "Like the house?"

"Oh, sorry," Justin corrected himself. "I always forget you're not really from Hogwarts. So, long story short, Hogwarts has four founders who gave their name to their house. At some point in the construction of the school, Salazar Slytherin argued against the others and their policy regarding students. Slytherin wanted to refuse any student that had muggle parents."

"Sounds like the nice guy of the story," Will commented.

"Well... I mean... Slytherin, you know," Justin pointed out. "Some are great folks, but they have quite the history. Anyway, the three other founders refused, especially Gryffindor who stood up for the rights of muggleborns."

"Actually," Hannibal nuanced, "it is a revisited vision of history. We have often put at the centre of the argument the opposition between Gryffindor and Slytherin. The two male figures, both friends and enemies, relegating their female companions to the background. It was such an easy and pleasant dichotomy to build and pass down through stories, depicting Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff as mere bystanders. But, as a matter of fact, if Gryffindor did indeed stand up against Slytherin, it was simply out of ego and of position of principle. Gryffindor and Slytherin's enmity was already as its paroxysm and both needed very few reasons to be against each other.

          "According to the letters of both Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, and the memoirs of their head students, it is actually Hufflepuff who stood up for the rights of muggleborns, stating that she would leave the school if such a policy was implemented and teach muggleborns herself. Gryffindor had even been for stricter tests and screenings of the future students' magical abilities before Slytherin mentioned it as well.

          "If Gryffindor didn't care about the blood status and only about the power of his students, it is still because of his feelings for Slytherin that he so firmly fought against him. And it was Hufflepuff alone who fought, not against the man himself, but against his values, making Hogwarts the most inclusive school at that time. Ultimately, it is when the balanced Ravenclaw sided with Hufflepuff that Slytherin left, knowing that he wouldn't be listened to. Gryffindor had little to do with it."

          They all listened to Hannibal closely. It was the first time that Will had heard the story, but the other students seemed to rediscover it as well.

"It's not what we were told," Megan stated. "They said that it was mostly Gryffindor and Slytherin, and that Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff agreed with Gryffindor."

"It is a very unlikely version" Hannibal insisted. "Both Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were very dismissive of Gryffindor's opinions, considering them to be more about who he was fighting rather than what he was fighting. Gryffindor's arguments were ad hominem, when Hufflepuff confronted the ideology behind."

"Why weren't we taught that?" Hannah asked.

"Hufflepuff's lack of interest for posthumous fame allowed History to take a lot from her and attribute it to more omnipresent figures."

"More masculine figure," Will offered.

          Hannibal smiled at that simple truth.

"We can't deny that, despite the intrinsically feminine history of witchcraft, we have been greatly influenced by the muggle masculine viewpoint. I think it will take some centuries before Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff are given back the credit they deserve."

"We're gonna help them with that," Susan affirmed. "Ready to win yet another house cup?"

"The hell I am!" Megan exclaimed. "We crushed Gryffindor last year. We were more than a hundred points ahead, even with all the points they got just before the feast! I mean..."

          She glanced at Will.

"I don't mean to..."

"I don't give a shit," Will shrugged.

          The House cup was so low on the list of his concerns, it was laughable.

"No, not the house cup," Megan corrected, "I figured you wouldn't care. But I shouldn't have spoken so casually of the points you won before the feast..."

          She was referencing the hundreds of points that McGonagall had given them after the Battle of Atrium. Each of them had won fifty points for their house and, with the majority of them being Gryffindors, it had changed their place in the ranking. Hannibal's fifty points had not influenced Hufflepuff which was already at the top. And Luna's fifty points didn't bring a cup to Ravenclaw, only a commemorative plaque in the Trophy Room.

"It's fine," Will said. "It's just points. Who cares."

"They said you received them because of... Because of what happened in the Ministry..."

          The silence in the compartment changed. Will was well aware that they all had the same questions in mind, but none dared to pronounce them out loud.

          Yet, after a moment of awkwardness and certainly a summer of questioning, Ernie dared.

"No one really knew what you were doing there. And what happened. We just know that... Luna... And... You-Know-Who..."

          Will didn't answer. He was never good with questions. At least, not when he didn't have a clear agenda to serve. In that case, he wasn't quite sure what should be said and what shouldn't.

          Hannibal handled it for him.

"We went to the Ministry because we had good reasons to believe someone was in danger. And we were right, since we ended up being the ones in danger. Voldemort and his followers were trying to retrieve something from the Department of Mysteries. Harry prevented him from having that item by breaking it. Ultimately, Luna died in a fight, Voldemort ran away when reinforcements joined in, the battle ended with no true victor."

"And..."

          Susan stopped before she could end the first word, unsure whether or not it was wise to continue. She bit her lips, her eyes going from Hannibal to Ernie. Whatever she wanted to say, she seemed to have mentioned it to Ernie first, Will gathered.

"Speak your mind, Susan," Hannibal benevolently smiled at her. "Better to ask us than to ask Harry."

          Will thought it was the kind of thoughtful gesture that was rare coming from Hannibal. He could be thoughtful, of course. But never if he had to pay for it with a reduction of his amusement. And surely, having Harry struggle to answer questions about his recent traumas would amuse him to no end.

          Or maybe, he was simply covering his tracks. If no one but him was in charge of telling the story, who would know that Hannibal had ditched the fight before it even began? The same way history had been rewritten to put Gryffindor in the forefront, Hannibal was retelling his to put himself in the background.

          At least, that may have been the plan before he heard Susan's question.

"It's just that... I was able to read the report about the Battle of the Atrium. My aunt is... it doesn't matter. I read it and they said..."

          She hesitated to say it aloud, looking at Ernie for encouragement. Will knew what was about to be said. For a second, he wondered how Hannibal would be able to make himself look good despite how he had left the group after a stupid argument. Especially in front of people as self-sacrificing as the Hufflepuffs gathered around them.

          It was ultimately Ernie who finished the question.

"They said You-Know-Who casted an Avada Kedavra on you. But that you didn't die. Like Harry Potter."

          It took Will several seconds to understand what those sentences meant, and why they were so far from what he had expected. For a moment, his mind remained blank and unresponsive, and he had to repeat each word to himself in order to make sense of them.

          Oh.

          So, they knew.

          Will turned toward Hannibal but his friend had his empty eyes fixed on Susan. Despite the emotionlessness of his face, Will was able to tell what dilemma was bothering Hannibal's trains of thoughts. A truth or a lie. Hannibal certainly didn't want for that fact to be known. However, erasing Will's beautiful gift couldn't possibly sit right with him.

          On the other hand, Hannibal knew better than to admit Will could achieve such an act of magic. For now, not even Voldemort was aware of the reason for Hannibal's survival. And no matter how bold he could be with his own life, he was also minutely thoughtful when it came to Will's.

          However, was a lie even possible? How could they oppose the official record without bringing upon them further inquisitive questions.

          Hannibal seemed to have made up his mind, since he eventually answered.

"Yes, it is true."

          He kept it simple but to no end. The other students in the compartment looked at him with wide eyes and expecting faces. Though they were shocked by the answer, Will realized they weren't surprised by the question. It seemed that Susan had told everyone about the record even before Hannibal and Will had joined them.

          As if that short answer had unlocked some door, a stream of questions poured on them.

"How.. how is it possible?" Wayne asked.

"It is a very complex case. With many different magics operating around each other."

"Yours?"

"Barely."

"You-Know-Who's?"

"Not exclusively."

"Can you reproduce it?"

"I cannot."

"How does it feel? The unforgivable curse."

"It doesn't feel like anything."

"Does Harry know?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"He is glad I am not dead."

"Is he the one who protected you?"

"No. He is not."

"Do you have a scar too, now?"

          That, Will thought, was a good question. Harry had a scar, where the spell had hit him. A rather visible one that was still there more than a decade later, and was likely to never disappear. Yet, Will had seen Hannibal naked not so long ago. And he hadn't noticed any scar that he hadn't already known of from before.

"I do not have a scar," Hannibal confirmed.

"Why?"

"Different situations, different outcomes."

"But, if You-Know-Who couldn't kill you," Susan pondered, "like Harry... Does that mean... Does that mean that you are the Chosen One too?"

          Will knew that expression. It was the one the newspapers had used, along with The-Boy-Who-Lived, to talk about Harry. It was a tool to mystify Harry's figure as a way to keep at bay the fear of Voldemort.

          Will could tell the irony behind Hannibal becoming a shield against fear. If that were to happen, that would represent years of laughter for the both of them.

"I am not," Hannibal stated clearly.

"Why aren't you?" Wayne asked. "Since you survived too."

"Harry is the Chosen One for many reasons, none of them apply to me. You can consider he is chosen by fate, it is not my case. Nothing is said nor thought about me and that war to come. Or maybe you consider he is chosen by Voldemort. Not my case either. Voldemort marked Harry as his nemesis, and had continuously tried to destroy him before anyone else. I barely fit in the story at all. Or you can believe he is chosen by the people, and, once again, it does not apply to me. You know of the situation because Susan read a report. Illegally so, I believe. But it is not public knowledge, and no one sees me as such. No matter which reason you have to call Harry the Chosen One, none of them include me. I am not the Chosen One. And that is fantastic news for all of us."

"Why that?" Justin frowned.

"Because then I can focus solely on what truly matters. Winning the house cup for Hufflepuff."

          The students couldn't help but cheer at that. They had a real chance to win the cup indeed and, in many ways, it was a much more tangible perspective than Voldemort and any Chosen One.

"I wished we could have someone like Snape for the Slytherins," Megan said dreamily. "Or Dumbledore for the Gryffindors."

"Maybe we will," Ernie shrugged, hopeful. "We don't know who the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher will be. Maybe a former Hufflepuff that will help out!"

"Unlikely," Hannah said. "But still, I hope they will be better than what we had before."

"It's not setting the bar very high..." Will mumbled.

          A couple of hours later, and as they had finished discussing each of their eventual career plans and the NEWTs results to achieve them, the train progressively began to slow down, marking the end of the journey and the necessity to put on the Hogwarts uniforms. Unwilling to fight against the crowd and made wiser by years of experience, the small group remained seated for a while, waiting for most of the students to have exited the train. Only when the corridors began to empty did they begin to follow their peers outside.

          The weather was particularly cold for a beginning of September. The summer was not over yet, and already Will could see his white breath disappearing in the black night. He let Orphy fly to the castle on his own and shoved his hands in his pocket to keep some warmth for himself. He had left his coat in his suitcase and only had his school robes to fight off the unusual coldness. But they would soon be inside the castle too, with a warm feast waiting for them, and Will already began to feel better at that thought alone.

"What are they waiting for?"

          Will turned around to see what Hannibal was looking at. He quickly spotted Ron and Hermione, waiting in the middle of the platform, their robes tightened around them to keep the warmth to themselves, and their eyes fixed on the train.

"I don't know. For someone probably."

"Let's go ask them."

          Will nodded. It was not a weather to remain outside, as the heavy sky was forecasting a sudden summer rain. Hermione and Ron had had to have good reasons to wait still on the platform.

          As they arrived, they weren't able to ask a single question, Hermione beating them to it the second she noticed them.

"Eh, you've seen Harry?"

"We've seen him with you," Will reminded her. "Just before we left you to find Hannibal's friends. He didn't spend the trip with you?"

"Yeah, but less than an hour before the train arrived, he left. And he didn't come back."

"He left?" Hannibal repeated. "He gave you a reason or he just walked away."

          Ron looked around, making sure than no one was listening, before resuming with a quieter voice:

"He said he wanted to see what Malfoy was up to. He’s been obsessed since we saw him at Borgin and Burkes. He absolutely wants to prove that Malfoy is now a Death Eater."

"And you haven't seen him since?" Will asked.

"No," Hermione answered. "I thought he would wait for us on the platform, but I can't see him anywhere."

"When Will and I exited the train, there were very few people left. We would have noticed him if Harry had been there."

"I told you, Hermione," Ron exclaimed. "He's just ahead of us. He must be waiting for us in the Great Hall."

"I don't know..." Hermione whispered, unsure.

"Come on, I'm telling you. We're gonna be late for nothing."

          Hermione hesitated for another couple of seconds before reluctantly following Ron, one last glance to the train.

          Hannibal was about to follow them, but Will grabbed his elbow to stop his motion.

"You really think he is ahead of us?"

"I don't know. We will see when we will arrive there."

          But Will didn't let go of Hannibal's elbow.

"I don't think Hermione and Ron take Draco very seriously."

"Why would they?"

"I don't think Harry's suspicions about Draco are that crazy. He threatened me once, and though he is no threat to me, I..."

"He threatened you?"

"Yes. Us both actually. Last year, he figured out who had advised Umbridge to open an investigation about his father. He was pretty pissed off."

"You are the one who convinced Dolores to do that?"

"Yeah. I told you when... Oh wait. No. It was the evening she poisoned the tea with some Veritaserum. I found you just after that, to tell you but well... You weren't in the best of moods. And then we went on with the Let's Kill Her plan and... well, it kinda slipped out of my mind, to be honest."

"What about the threat?"

"Threat is a big word. You would have laughed it off. He just promised revenge against me, in the name of his father."

"Funny, he also wants to have it out with me. He told Harry about it."

"With you? Why for?"

"Something to do with betrayal of blood, Harry told me. But I believe it has more to do with the fear his mother has for me. He knows something lies underneath it all, but he can't tell what and that ignites his anger."

"Why does his mother fear you? What does she know about you?"

"Well, she knows I am a powerful wizard. And she also knows my boyfriend blew up her house because someone was mean to me. Her husband is gone. Her sister is gone. No wonder she doesn't want her son near me."

"And Harry told you about that?"

"About the threat. Not about the mother."

"What does he know about it?"

"Draco told him, from what I've gathered. Apparently, Draco found a book and was too eager to threaten me with it. He bragged about it and Harry told me after a while."

"A book? What... What book? Does he really have something against us?"

"No, Will. He doesn't. It is a history book. What he is after is information. It was his way to tell me he planned on going after my own mother, the same way I went after his."

"But... Isn't she... dead?"

"Very much. That is why I can safely tell he has nothing ag..."

"Hush..."

          Will grabbed both of his boyfriend's arms and dragged him with him a couple of feet on their right, until they were hidden behind one of the few stone pillars around them. The platform was now empty, each student having rushed to the carriages to hurry to the feast waiting for them. That was why Will spotted at once the dark silhouette moving behind the windows, and he was able to push Hannibal and himself out of sight before Draco Malfoy could step out of the train.

          Without so much as a glance for the seemingly empty platform, Draco walked out of the station, certainly to try to catch one of the last carriages.

"Told you he wasn't ahead," Will whispered once Draco had disappeared.

"I didn't say otherwise. I simply implied that I did not care. Which is an undeniable truth."

          Will backed off to let Hannibal walk out of the recess where they were hidden.

"Do you want us to check?" Hannibal asked with a sigh.

"I'd like that."

          Instinctively, Will took his wand out of his pocket and walked with Hannibal to the end of the train. They got on and began to follow the corridor to the head, opening every compartment to make sure they were all empty.

"Hannibal?" Will called as they were slowly making their way to the half of the train.

"Yes, Will?"

          Hannibal closed yet another compartment and opened the next one.

"Why don't you have a scar, while Harry has one?"

          Hannibal recognized the question that had been asked to him before, but this time, he had to have decided that Will was more worthy of a precise answer than Hannah.

"Because the unforgivable curses don't leave scars. Harry's scar is not from the spell, it is from the Horcrux. That is why Voldemort's emotions give him headaches. Nothing to do with the spell."

"And you didn't become his Horcrux..."

"Of course no," Hannibal exclaimed, vexed by the mere idea. "I am very careful with what enters my body. Never would have allowed such cheap filth to come anywhere near me. You alone, dear soul, has that sacred privilege."

          Will smiled at Hannibal's vexation. However, and before he could add something, his boyfriend stopped in the middle of the corridor, his whole body still, his head slightly back, as he seemed to be slowly inhaling.

"You're smelling something?"

"Blood," Hannibal informed him.

          Will tightened his grips on his wand. Maybe Malfoy was not as harmless as he had thought.

          Hannibal guided him confidently across the corridor, having now a clear path to follow. Finally, he opened one of the doors, certain of where the blood was coming from. Yet, when Will arrived behind him, he noticed that the space was completely empty.

          No trace of blood, and no trace of Harry.

"Uh... You're sure?"

"Yes, Will" Hannibal said with a frown. "I am sure."

          Will looked around, to try to spot anything unusual, but he couldn't. The train was empty.

          Hannibal extended his hand in front of him, his palm toward the floor.

"There is someone here," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean there is someone here. It smells like there is someone, it sounds like there is someone. I can't feel any magic but..."

"Oh, I know."

          Will knelt on the floor and, cautiously, brought his hand forward, slowly moving it around until he could feel it bumping against the void. He patted around that invisible barrier and was finally able to grab the soft piece of cloth he could feel and take it off completely.

          Harry's body appeared on the floor in front of them, too rigid to not be hexed, his face stained with blood from a broken nose.

"May I see the cloth," Hannibal asked without a glance for Harry.

"Can you deal with that, instead?" Will lectured.

          Hannibal took his wand out and, with a simple gesture, he dissipated the hex blocking Harry's body.

"Oh, gosh, thanks!"

          Harry, finally free, quickly tried to sit up and Will helped him out. He felt Hannibal take the cloth off his hands, but didn't comment on it, letting his boyfriend have it while he was focusing on Harry.

"What the hell happened?"

"It's Malfoy," Harry said, wiping his bleeding nose with his sleeve. "He guessed I was following him. He waited until everyone had left and casted a full body-bind curse on me. The broken nose, it's just a nice extra gift from him."

"Did you learn something?"

"Listen, I know you don't believe me, but I'm telling you. He is a Death Eater now."

"I believe you, Harry."

"... Really?"

"I don't see why Voldemort wouldn't want to use him."

"For what?"

"I don't know. But it is likely that he is working for him."

          Harry remained silent after that, probably trying to find a clue in what he had heard of the conversation. In the meantime, his nose was bleeding heavily, staining the front of his hoodie.

"Hannibal, can't you do something about that?" Will asked.

          But he got no answer. He turned his head toward his boyfriend and realized that Hannibal was in a state of deep concentration, his eyes detailing the cloth with minutiae, his frown betraying the intensity of his thoughts.

"Hannibal?" Will called again.

"You never told me you had the Invisibility Cloak," Hannibal said, missing Will's question entirely to remain focused on Harry.

"I didn't?"

"No, you did not," he stated without a doubt. "You talked about it once. You said my Invisibility Cloak. Like if it was an Invisibility Cloak rather than the Invisibility Cloak."

"I... I don't get what you mean."

"Who gave it to you?"

"It was my father's. Dumbledore gave it to me during my First Year."

"Professor Dumbledore?"

"Yes."

"He gave it to you?"

"Yes, he did."

"Why did he have it in the first place? Why did your father give it to him?"

"I don't know... He never told me. I guess my father wasn't at school anymore, so he didn't need it for his pranks..."

"For his pranks..."

          Hannibal repeated the last words, detaching each of them carefully, as if to better understand them. Then, with an obvious coldness, he neatly folded the cloak and handed it back to Harry. He barely looked at him while casting a silent spell to repair his nose.

"You're angry?" Harry asked, getting on his feet with Will's help.

"I am simply unenthusiastic about where this Cloak is."

"Why?" Harry frowned, not understanding what the problem was. "I think it's a family heirloom of sorts."

"Family heirloom or not, it is of little importance. Despite all the respect I have for you, Harry, this Cloak belongs to a university museum, not to a singular individual who can't tell it apart from the other cloaks and who used it for pranks. I guess the fact that it belonged to your father gives it a sentimental value for you, but you won't have me say it outweighs the value the world would give it."

"I know Invisibility Cloaks are rare but... You're saying this one has something special?"

          Hannibal didn't answer. He simply fixed Harry with his blank eyes, and Will felt he was a second away from rolling them. Ultimately, he did not react at all, and did not answer. He simply stood up and walked out of the compartment.

"What's... What's wrong?" Harry frowned.

"Don't even try to guess. Let's go."

          Both boys exited the compartment as well and followed Hannibal out of the train.

          The last carriage was long gone, and they began their walk toward the castle. Hannibal was walking ahead of them, not even willing to offer them a glance, apparently deadly vexed by Harry's Cloak for some reasons that Will himself didn't get.

          Not that it mattered. He would get over it at some point.

"How did you know you needed to look for me?" Harry asked.

"Hermione and Ron told us. But we weren't sure you weren't simply ahead of us. So, when they decided to check for you at the castle, we thought it wouldn't cost much to check the train one last time. And we saw Malfoy getting out of it so..."

"Thanks again. I'd have gone back to London if it wasn't for you."

"I think someone would have found you before that. It's not like you’re not watched at all times."

"Very reassuring..."

          They arrived at the large iron gates guarding the entrance of the great wall around the castle, and Will realized they were closed, large chains encircling them to keep them unmovable. Harry took his wand out and pointed it at the lock.

"Alohomora."

          Nothing happened.

"Did I do it wrong?"

"No, you did not," Hannibal answered, his eyes on the gates, "it is protected by Professor Dumbledore. A simple alohomora could not do much."

"Then, can you open them for us, please?" Will said.

          The corner of Hannibal's lips twitched slightly, barely visible in the ambient darkness.

"As I said, the protections have been put in place by Professor Dumbledore..."

"That means you can't outsmart him?"

          Hannibal was already in a rather foul mood, and the question did not improve it, as could be told from the cold glance he offered Will instead of an answer.

"I could climb the wall..." Harry said, looking at the old and irregular stones.

"Be my guest."

          Understanding that sentence as an approbation, Harry walked to the wall, and began to search for holds. He grabbed one, but he was not even a few inches above the ground that the stones moved around his fingers, making him lose balance and fall harshly on his back in the bushes.

          Will knew Hannibal had foreseen this but had made sure to let Harry proceed with his plan, nonetheless. Certainly, watching him hurt himself was a good outlet for his bad mood. Casual cruelty.

"Hannibal, what can you do to bypass the spells?"

"I don't know, Will. What can you do?"

          Will frowned. Hannibal was the first to show off, whenever he could elegantly do so. Yet, here he was, standing in front of the gates, frustration obvious on his face. Will could see in his eyes that all his trains of thoughts were speeding through the mist, trying to come up with something, yet Hannibal remained motionless.

          Was it really possible that Hannibal couldn't bypass Dumbledore's protections? That would certainly explain the growing annoyance Will could feel coming from Hannibal. His boyfriend was not used to facing challenges.

          Ultimately, and as Harry was getting back on his feet, dusting his mistreated clothes, they noticed a light walking toward them in the dark.

"Someone's coming," Harry pointed out with joy. "I was beginning to think we would have to spend the night at Hogsm..."

          Harry's sentence died on his lips as they realized that the growing silhouette in the night was none other's than Snape's.

"Fuck..." Harry whispered, at the exact same time as Will.

"Well, well, well..." Snape snarled as he arrived in front of them. "We are honoured that you blessed us with your presence, Potter, Graham... Even though our uniform seems to be offensively below some of you."

"I couldn't change, my..."

"Save it, Potter. No one is interested."

          Snape's eyes quickly travelled to Will but left just as quickly. Still as unwilling to have any contact with the Empath.

          With a flick of his wand, the teacher opened the gates and Will, following Harry and Hannibal, was able to finally get in.

"So let me see..." Snape whispered while detailing them. "Fifty points from Gryffindor for the lateness, Potter. And fifty points as well for you Graham. Without forgetting the twenty points for the lack of uniform. A hundred and twenty points. And I believe you just set a new record. No house has ever had such a negative score before the term could even start. I am certain you will be most proud to brag about it with your friends."

          He didn't even acknowledge Hannibal's presence, his desire to set the good student apart from the bad ones shamelessly obvious. Will expected Harry to be unable to take it, and to voice his legitimate fury and outrage, yet he kept them perfectly silent, not even offering Snape a glance. He simply waited for the teacher to let them go.

          That was some growth if Will had ever seen it.

          Snape took the general silence as a sign of submission and began to walk toward the castle. They all followed, Harry putting Will and Hannibal between him and Snape as if they were as many barriers preventing his anger from exploding.

          Will didn't mind taking up that role, but he wasn't certain Hannibal was a good... whatever, right now. The Empath grabbed his lover's hand and squeezed it tightly but, even though Hannibal's body answered, his mind was somewhere else altogether. Dwelling in his frustration. Being unable to find a way to overcome Dumbledore's protections, especially considering what kind of feelings Hannibal was currently harbouring against the old Headmaster, was not the sort of matter that would be easily swallowed.

          Therefore, Will didn't say anything, simply holding his boyfriend's hand as they were making their way to the castle.

          When they arrived by the doors of the Great Hall, Snape stopped to face them one last time.

"It seems obvious that you expected to make quite the great entrance. I would hate to deprive you of it. You can walk in how you envisioned it, in the middle of the Headmaster's speech, wearing your muggle clothes."

          His black eyes met Will's for less than a second before he finally turned away and disappeared at the end of one of the corridors, certainly to access the Great Hall through the side door reserved for teachers.

          However, and as his cloak was swirling behind him, Will noticed that Hannibal, who was standing by his side, had frowned before slowly breathing in. He had picked up a scent he hadn't expected.

"I can't believe that guy!" Harry exclaimed, but Will didn't listen to him.

          Hannibal's face had never been a great tool of expression. Few things could write themselves on these features, and never in an extreme fashion. Yet, for an educated and sensitive reader, some messages could pierce through.

          And Will, when it came to Hannibal, was educated and sensitive indeed. That was the reason why he could tell without the shadow of a doubt that, whatever Hannibal had just smelled, he had viscerally hated it, taking it as a personal insult. Whatever bad mood he had had before that, it was nothing compared to the anger and insult he was currently experiencing. Forgotten the Cloak, and forgotten Dumbledore's protections. Another matter had kicked them out of his resentment in a second.

"Hannibal..." Will began before being interrupted.

"I am skipping it."

          Before anything could be said, Hannibal had let go of Will's hand and had turned around, walking away in quick steps.

"Hannibal, wait a s..."

          But it was too late, Hannibal had already disappeared in the stairs leading to the Hufflepuff Common Room.

"What's gotten into him?" Harry asked, his anger for Snape replaced by his worry for his friend.

"I don't know... I'll talk to him tomorrow. For now, I think he wants some time on his own."

"I'm low-key tempted to do the same and just skip the feast altogether."

"You'll be in even more trouble with Snape. Come on. Let's make our entrance and own it. He thinks that he is humiliating us? How cool is it to crash a speech while being covered in blood?"

"I'd rather just lay low to be honest."

"Yeah, me too. But if we have to do it, let's make it a huge middle finger to Snape."

"You know how to sell it. Let's go."

          They could have half-open the door silently, slip through the crack and walk as fast and as discreetly to their table as possible. They could have indeed.

          They did not.

          Will pushed both wings of the door wide open, in a loud creaking thunder. Dumbledore, who was indeed in the middle of his speech, interrupted it, and every student turned around to see the two newcomers.

          Then, Will and Harry, in the perfect silence of the crowded Great Hall, took their time to walk to their table at the far end of the room. Harry shoved his hands in his pocket to hide the tremors of stress, but he kept his head high, his face showing nothing but the contempt he had for Snape.

          All the students' heads followed them in their walk, whispering among each other, wondering about the blood, asking if it was him, the Chosen One, and if the boy by his side was not also one of those who had fought in the Battle of the Atrium.

          Will and Harry ignored the mumbles running through the tables and, once they spotted Ron and Hermione, they simply sat down and waited, their faces carefully blank.

          As soon as they were settled, Dumbledore, who was still standing in front of the teachers' table, cleared his throat. The students' faces turned back to him, even though their attention was still very much on Will and Harry.

"As I was saying" Dumbledore resumed with a kind smile, "those wishing to play for their House Quidditch team should express their desire to their Head of House. The same goes for any student wishing to take on the role of commentator.

"As for our staff, this year, as any other, brings its load of changes. First of all, Professor Grubbly-Plank will be taking back her position of Professor of Care for the Magical Creatures. So will Professor Trelawney, who will teach Divination alongside Professor Firenze."

          The centaur was not in the Great Hall, of course, but Will spotted at once the outrage on Trelawney's face. These two weren't too happy to be working together.

          However, as he was detailing the seer, his eyes noticed another face sitting not far away. A face he knew yet he hadn’t expected. And the mere sight of it caught him so off guard that he completely missed Dumbledore's announcement.

"And finally, I hope you will join me in offering the warmest of welcomes to our new teacher of Defence Against the Dark Arts, Professor Murasaki.”

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 5

Yet Another Beginning

          Sheba was relieved to leave the Great Hall behind. It reminded her too much of her youth. The endless feasts, the crowd of anonymous visages, the perpetual stiffness of societies. Even as a young girl, she had never liked that. She liked the quietness of streams much more than the litany of speeches.

          She knew she was supposed to be left marvelled by the beauty of childhood. They were there, the old generation, facing their future right in the eyes. But she could see that anywhere. In the death and birth of seasons. In the fall of rain and the rise of vapor. In the clever visage of Chiyoh, her student. She didn't need a room full of children for that.

          She knew it was what was wetting Albus Dumbledore's eyes. That youth that would outlive them. But Sheba had realized her own ephemeral place in the fine cogs of the world when she was still a child herself. Far before she became a mother by fate. In some ways, she could understand Albus. They were similar on that matter. Both unwilling to have children, yet both assuming the role of a guide and a protector. Albus was simply prouder about it then Sheba. Or maybe Sheba was simply humbler.

          When her father had married her away to Robertus Lecter, she had found more than unexpected love there. She had found a man answering her every desire when it came to her own life. He had been willing to never become a father for her. He had been willing to buy their house in the middle of the countryside rather than in the Parisian city he adored so tenderly. He had been willing to surrender her with nature, quietude, and both deep and light conversations at all hours of the night. And, behind all the love she had for her late husband, she could find gratitude for taking her away from the life she had feared.

          And here she was now. Mother of two children. First Chiyoh, the unloved daughter of a family friend. Sheba had taken her in out of obligation toward her father, but had cared for her and nurtured her out of dread that the girl would know the life Sheba had barely escaped. Then, Hannibal...

          And Robertus had died, leaving her with children and feasts.

"Madam?"

          Sheba turned around to see who had called her. She had waited till the very end of the feast before leaving the Great Hall, and the corridors were empty, all students having rushed to their bed and their much-needed sleep.

          There were still a couple of teachers inside the Hall, but it was Dumbledore alone who had stepped out of the room to catch her before she could retire for the night.

"Headmaster?"

"I simply wanted to repeat how grateful I am for your help."

"I owe you as much."

"I know this is not what you envisioned for yourself."

"When life gives you children, it is up to you to place their priorities above yours."

"I can't say I know how it is," he politely smiled.

"I think you know more than most."

          For a moment, both remained silent, searching in the other's eyes fractions of their own reflection. They didn't need to search far.

"It is a tradition for Minerva and me, a week or so after the beginning of the term, once everything has settled down, to meet in my office for a drink and late talks. I would be most honoured if you wanted to join us this year. I believe your presence would enrich that shared moment."

"That would be my pleasure, Headmaster."

          She hadn't had time to meet any of her new colleagues, and she had never needed many friends in her life, but she craved for quality conversation, if she could have any.

"I will let you know when it will take place."

"I will be waiting, then. Goodnight, Professor Dumbledore."

"Goodnight, Professor Murasaki."

          With a last gestured goodbye, she turned around and walked away.

          She had never thought she would become a teacher one day. She had been one to Chiyoh, of course. She had taught her manners and etiquettes. A little bit of music and philosophy also. And she had been one to Hannibal, at a time where the boy was too violent to attend school. But Hannibal had been more knowledgeable than her in nearly any field, from magic to literature. Ultimately, she had been able to teach him little more than the art of sword fighting and floral arrangement, both arts for which he was now her perfect match.

          That didn't mean she doubted her ability as a teacher at Hogwarts. She had been trained very young to both create and oppose the Dark Arts and she considered herself a Warrior during times of peace. She knew how to protect and she knew how to pass down her knowledge. Chiyoh had taught her the beauty of teaching and Hannibal had taught her the danger of it. She now knew how to balance both.

          But she had never expected a class of students. She favoured the intimate and bilateral relationship between a private student and a guide and protector above the unilateral authority given by an education system asking her to grade and discipline. It was not how she envisioned her contact with the world.

          But Albus Dumbledore had asked. And, it was true, she owed him. Though it was not why she accepted. She also knew that peril laid ahead of Hannibal's path. She wasn't certain if he was doomed to face danger or to become danger, but, in both cases, she knew she had to be by his side. Either to save or to grieve.

          Her private apartments were on the Ground Floor, in one of the isolated wings of the castle that few students would walk without a reason to do so. If she were to continue in the corridor, passing by her door, she would end up joining the long outdoor stone stairs that led to the boat house, on the shore of the Great Lake. If she didn't want to use the stairs, she could then turn left and cross the large bridge that offered a breath-taking view but also a long walk to the entrance courtyard which could be accessed more easily from inside the castle.

          There was no classroom and no places to hang out in that part of the school, leaving it peaceful and quiet. She was only sharing the corridor with another teacher she hadn't met yet, Professor Firenze. They were the only two teachers with appartements on the Ground Floor, and Albus had been adamant they would get along nicely enough.

          Whoever that Professor Firenze was, he was either away or asleep, for no sign of life could be heard. She knew she would meet him soon enough, and she simply opened the door of her own apartments.

          She had been told that Hogwarts teachers led monachal lives, with the bare necessities as to not distract them from their teaching. Her appartements were not like that. Either because the Professors' minimalism was just a myth or, more likely, because Albus Dumbledore had gone out of his way to offer her a fraction of the luxury she had at her late husband's estate.

          She recognized the unique hybrid scenery born from the unnatural meeting of the traditional Nippon style and the Louis Quinze design, a bastard child she had seen nowhere else than in the home she had built with Robertus. The main room, a living room which had all the accents of a boudoir, was larger than she had thought her whole appartements would be. Arts on the wall were meant to create the sensation of a chamber already occupied and loved, and she could spot five doors from the entrance, which indicated to her that she had more than the bare necessities, in terms of rooms alone at the very least.

          However, her mind barely registered the many attentions Albus Dumbledore had displayed while preparing her chambers. Her eyes spotted at once the human shadow, in the midst of the inhuman ones.

          Someone was in her living room, sitting on the causeuse, waiting in the darkness, their face indistinguishable from the night.

          But she didn't need to distinguish him in order to recognize him. She could always tell his darkness apart from any other.

"You are not supposed to be here, Hannibal."

"That makes two of us, then."

          She was in her own living room. He was not. But she knew better than to argue on words with him. He was as much of a virtuoso with them as she was herself. There could be no victory.

"Why are you helping him?"

          He had not moved from the causeuse, his voice giving as much away as his indiscernible face. She remained in the entrance. She didn't want to come any closer.

"I am helping you," she answered as flatly as him. "Am I not?"

          Hannibal uncrossed his legs and stood on them. He had grown since last winter. Dangerously so. He was now as tall as her. He stepped forward and a ray of moonlight fell on his face.

          Sheba had a control over herself similar to the one Hannibal had over him. Yet she nearly stepped back when her nephew's face appeared in front of her.

          He had changed. And each feature of his face had grown closer and closer to a spitting image of Robertus Lecter. He had the same cheekbones, the same carved cheeks and eyes, the same strong jaw and insolent lips. The same natural severity meeting cultural distinction. Hannibal's face and stature resembled his uncle's much more than they resembled his father's and now, Sheba couldn't unsee the reflection of her late husband on the visage of her nephew.

"If you believe so, then you are doing the helping wrong, ma Dame."

"What would you have me do?"

          Hannibal walked to her, and Sheba fought vehemently to prevent herself from stepping back. Just as vehemently as she fought to prevent herself from stepping forward.

"You were supposed to remain where you belong..." he whispered once he arrived in front of her, only a few inches separating them.

"Stay at home?" she asked.

          He pursed his lips, unhappy with her wording.

"You are the cosmogonical pillar around which your world revolves. A world where you welcomed me, nurtured me back to strength and taught me how to talk and walk. With you gone from that world, what is left of it?"

"Nothing."

"And how is that helping me?"

"You don't need it, Hannibal. You are not a child. Not anymore. Or if you are, it will soon come to an end. You will have your own world, and your own cosmogony, as you become a man."

          For a moment, he didn't answer. His red eyes shining in the darkness, the same way Robertus' would at night. He carefully received her words, his feelings protected behind a mask of blankness.

"Is this abandonment?" he asked.

          She sadly smiled at him. Ignoring her best instincts, she extended her hands and cupped Hannibal's face, warming his cold cheeks with her palms.

"No, Hannibal. It is simply time passing by."

          He closed his eyes, resting his face against her hands.

"What if time were to reverse?" he breathed.

"It won't. It never does."

          She slowly let go of him and he reopened his eyes.

"It is late, Hannibal. You should leave, and go back to your own room."

          They had shared rooms, at times. The first few weeks after his adoption, when every night would leave Hannibal screaming in his sleep. He nearly lost his tongue once, biting it off. And Sheba had often slept by his bed, so as to wake him up from his nightmares before he could hurt himself while fighting them. Then he had stopped having nightmares. Or maybe he had stopped screaming about them. And Sheba had been uncompromising about the fact that he needed to learn to sleep on his own.

          And now... Now he was far too old. And though Sheba loved him as dearly as she loved Robertus, she couldn't stomach the idea of having him in her appartements. He needed to leave.

          He must have felt that he wasn't welcomed because he didn't add anything more. He simply stepped aside and passed by her to walk toward the door.

          However, before he could cross the threshold, he stopped. As if hit by a last thought.

"If it comes down to him or me," he asked, "what will you do?"

          She didn't need to question him to know who this ‘him’ was.

"Why would it come down to him or you?"

          He didn't answer. He remained still for a second, nothing but his back offered to her. Then he walked away, closing the door behind him.

          What she felt she owed to Albus Dumbledore, it was only for Hannibal's sake. But, somehow, she could tell that giving Hannibal that confirmation would bring more harm than good.

          She was painfully aware she loved him too much for anyone's good.

          Including her own.

          And including Hannibal's.

          The morning of the first day of class, Ron was the last to wake up, and he did so leisurely. He took his time to get out of bed, enjoying his warm sheets to the last second, he walked around in his pyjamas for a certain amount of time, punching a makeshift quaffle improvised from an old tee-shirt tied into one big knot, sending the thing flying around the dormitory, with Harry, Dean, and Seamus. And once he finally decided to wash and get dressed, it didn't prevent him from finding time to waste here and there.

"You remember the First Year?" Seamus asked, while undoing the knot of his tie he had tied around his head to mimic Trelawney's headband, for everyone's amusement. "The first day? We were so stressed out!"

          He was right. Ron remembered the excitement and the anxiety kicking them out of bed, hurrying them to the Great Hall. Now they knew better. They were old, wise and unimpressed. Leave it to First Years to be excited for something as silly as a first day of school.

          When he finally got out of the dorms, accompanied by Harry, they found Hermione waiting for them in the Common Room.

"What were you doing? I began to think you had left without me.”

"Just waking up and all. Let's go, now, I'm so hungry!"

          They took the well-known path leading them to the Great Hall, turning left and right without a second thought, now so used to the anarchic dance of the stairs that they somehow instinctively knew when to rush and when to stop.

          Though they had been among the last to leave the Common Room, they arrived before most of the First and Second Year students. Once in the Great Hall, Ron spotted Will and Hannibal at once, sitting at the Gryffindor table, and he naturally walked to them, catching some sentences of their conversation while doing so.

"I know you're pissed," Will was saying, "but she must have reasons other than what he believes. Reasons that concern you."

          Without much ceremony, Ron let himself fall on the bench by Will's side.

"Wassup, guys?" he asked while reaching for the closest plate of toasts.

          Harry and Hermione sat down too, next to Hannibal, and they all began their first breakfast of the year.

"What are you pissed about?" Ron asked again before his last rhetorical question could be answered.

"I am not pissed," Hannibal loftily answered with a nearly audible scoff.

"He's not too happy with the new Defence teacher," Will explained.

"Why?" Hermione asked. "She is bad?"

"She certainly is not. However, I do believe she has better places to be than here. Better and more suited places."

"You know her from where?" Harry wondered.

"Lady Murasaki's his mom," Will explained while moving his toast around in his plate

          For a second, no one spoke, staring at Will stupidly without understanding the word that had gotten out of his mouth.

"Sorry what?!" Ron finally exclaimed.

          He had been able to get a good look at the woman and she definitely didn't look like she could be Hannibal's mother. However, he didn't feel like saying that aloud, for some reasons. Thankfully, Harry took the weight off his shoulders.

"I thought your mother was... Uh..."

"Dead," Hannibal finished for him. "You can use the word. And, yes, she is. Lady Murasaki is obviously not my biological mother. She is however my aunt by marriage. And she adopted me. Therefore, and unlike the Dursleys for you, she is legally and effectively my adoptive mother."

"And you knew she was going to be here?" Ron asked.

          He was quite sure they had had a conversation on that topic, not so long ago, when they had debated over what kind of teacher they could be having this year. And he would have remembered it if Hannibal had told them anything about a mother or even a aunt of his.

"No, I did not," Hannibal frowned, looking at his plate that had not been filled yet, and didn't seem on its way to be.

"She didn't tell you? That's quite the big news..."

"We haven't seen each other since December."

"You didn't write to each other?"

"We did. Not over the summer, however... I thought she was busy helping Chiyoh to settle."

"I'm sure she has been..." Will kindly offered.

"Who's Chiyoh?" Ron asked.

"Lady Murasaki's private student. She turned seventeen in May and graduated from Beauxbatons shortly after. Lady Murasaki was to help her move back to Japan."

"So, Professor Murasaki has been a teacher before?" Hermione pointed out.

"Yes. She has taken Chiyoh in three years before she began to attend Beauxbatons and was her exclusive teacher during that period. As for me, she did teach me for as long as I was home-schooled."

"She was your teacher as well?" Ron repeated.

"Yes, she was."

          That was no small feat. Everyone knew how clever and talented Hannibal was. And a few of them had been able to witness his fight against Voldemort. Hannibal was nowhere near their level. And to know that Professor Murasaki had been the one teaching him... And that she would now also be teaching them. Ron felt his heart pick up a faster beat, as he was slowly realizing. He was about to be taught by the woman who had taught Hannibal. Was it possible...?

          No surely it wasn't.

          But still... Was it possible that, with the same teacher, he would end up being at the same level as Hannibal himself?

          Maybe it was why Dumbledore had wanted her to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts. Maybe she could turn them into wizards as powerful as her son.

"What's the requirements to get into her NEWT class?"

          Maybe it was some form of elite club, and only O-students could follow the lessons. Ron wasn't certain his E would lead him anywhere in this case. Who, apart from Harry, had achieved an O anyway? Hannibal, surely, though Ron had not seen his results.

"I don't know," Hermione answered him, "but I think we will soon figure it out."

          Indeed, McGonagall, who had been distributing the schedules to each student during the breakfast, was finally reaching them. She was surrounded by flying pieces of paper, like an administrative halo around her, and she grabbed a handful of them when she stopped by their side. It was certainly their OWL results and she looked them up carefully.

"Good morning," she said, her eyes on the papers.

"Good morning, Professor," Ron answered with his own question on the forefront of his mind. "We were wondering, what grade the new teacher of Defence is asking for? Is a E enough to continue?"

"Yes, it is. She accepts everyone who achieved a passing grade."

          Ron could feel a sense of relief wash over him, quickly replaced by excitement. He couldn't wait to see how strong he would become over the year.

"Now, Miss Granger..." McGonagall resumed, "very good results, I was most pleased. Congratulations."

"But the Defence Against the Dark Arts..."

"OWL results do not matter much in the long term, Miss Granger. As long as you are able to continue the class, it is your NEWT that will matter, not your OWL."

"Yes, Professor. I know I can do better."

"You have already done wonderfully. So, it is easy with you, you are allowed to continue all your classes. Is there any you want to drop?"

"No Professor. Is it possible to keep them all?"

"It is indeed. However, if it ends up being too much work, I hope you will find me to tell me. Better to drop one subject than to fail several."

"Yes, Professor. I promise I will."

          McGonagall tapped a blank piece of parchment with the tip of her wand and a schedule appeared on it. She then handed it to Hermione before turning to Harry.

"I have been very pleased with your results in Transfiguration, Potter. Very pleased indeed. If you are willing to continue, I will be happy to welcome you in my class."

"I'd like that. But both Ron and I haven't been able to have an O in potion. We can't continue in NEWT level classes."

"Yes, I noticed that. It is upsetting but I want you to remember that you still did honourably and that I have taken notes of the improvement you showed over the year. For now, I would advise you to continue the courses you planned on taking and we can meet later on this year to rediscuss your career possibilities."

"I'd like that, Professor."

"Same goes for you, Mr Weasley?"

"Yes."

"Then..."

          She went back to the papers.

"I see that you both wished to drop Care for Magical Creatures."

"Yes," Ron nodded. "So, we have more time to work on the rest."

          That was at least the excuse Harry and he had decided to give. The true reason was that they didn't really care about magical creatures in the first place. And with Hagrid gone, there was nothing left for them to feel bad about.

          Harry must had been following the same pattern of thoughts for he asked:

"Who's gonna be the new groundskeeper, Professor?"

"As a matter of fact, the role of groundskeeper of Hogwarts has been established by Professor Dumbledore himself as a tailored way of allowing Rubeus to stay at the school. I don't believe it is a priority for the Headmaster to fill it up."

          It wasn't a bad thing, Ron believed. He wouldn't have been able to appreciate anyone stepping in where Hagrid should have been. He had pictured an anonymous face living in Hagrid's hut, or growing Hagrid's giant pumpkins and couldn't feel anything but hate for that imagined figure.

"So, the both of you... You will be continuing... Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, Charms and Herbology. That will leave you plenty of time to hand me better essays."

"Yes, Professor," they both answered.

          They tried to put up a serious face but both boys were far too pleased with the amount of free time they were about to enjoy.

"You can both continue these courses. Make sure to not be overwhelmed by too much freedom. Now... Mister Graham... Where are... Oh, here."

          She grabbed yet another piece of paper that was floating around her hat and quickly read it.

"Very good. You have progressed where you needed to and you are able to continue all the classes required, if you still want to become an Aurologist, that is."

"I still do."

"So, Astronomy, Care for Magical Creatures, Divination, all Optimal. I'm very impressed Graham, I am sure you will do wonders in NEWT classes. However, if you did manage to get an A in History, which is enough to proceed, you must realize that it is very weak, and that you will need to work hard on that subject."

"That's what I plan on doing."

"Good. Now, you have your four NEWTs, but if you want to woo that school we talked about, you may want to take Defence Against the Dark Arts as well. And maybe a sixth one, in case you don't achieve E grades in any of the others. It will also help you put your files apart from other candidates."

"Well... Then... Charms? And… Transfiguration also…"

          McGonagall frowned at that mention.

“You never seemed too interested. I have to admit I am surprised you are missing out on the opportunity to drop the subject.”

          Will’s eyes lingered sideway, on Hannibal, before getting back on McGonagall.

“I can feel unvoiced expectations weighing down on my shoulders.”

“If you are certain.”

“Yeah… Let’s say I am.”

“You will still have the possibility to drop it if you think it is too much for you.

"Duly noted, trust me."

          Ron was about sure he had spotted a small smile on the corner of McGonagall's lips.

"Time will tell. So, you continue Divination and History, of course, Defence, Astronomy, Care for Magical Creatures, Transfiguration and Charms. We won't mention your results in Potion and Herbology."

"Thanks..."

          She tapped the tip of her wand on a blank piece of parchment before handing it to Will.

"Mr Lecter, Professor Sprouts will be the one to clear out everything with you. Maybe she would already have if you hadn't taken that habit of traveling from table to table."

"Travels nourish the mind, Professor."

"They do indeed," McGonagall smiled.

          She then continued toward Parvati and Neville who were sitting a bit further away. Sprouts didn't take much time to find them and approached Hannibal with a large smile.

"I couldn't wait to receive your results!" she said right away. "I am so very proud of the work you have put into it."

"Thank you, Professor," he answered flatly.

          He had to be used to that kind of praise, Ron thought bitterly.

"I also read your article, this summer. Very good! I don't know what finally decided you to do it, but I applaud their influence. As you can imagine, many schools have reached out, offering scholarships of all kinds. And yes, Saint Thaddeus and the Pygmalion Institute were among them. We must meet sometime this week, to discuss that and figure out your plans. It wouldn't be a waste of time to secure a place early, I believe."

"I agree. Let me know when you will be able to grant me some of your time."

"I will, in the meantime, here’s your class schedule. You can pursue every subject you want, of course. Is there any you wish to drop?"

"No. The more the better, as long as I can manage them. And I believe I can."

"You can still drop one during the year if you realize you can't keep up with the work. But I have no doubt you will be able to pull it off. Do you plan on continuing your work with Madam Pomfrey?"

"If she will have me."

"I will talk to her about it."

          She created the customized class schedule and handed it to Hannibal. She was about to leave when she was called again.

"Professor?"

"Yes?"

"Will and I would like to meet with the Headmaster, if it is possible. There is some matter we need to discuss, and I was wondering if you could ask him to see us at some point, when he will be available."

"Of course. I will tell him and let you know when he can have you."

"Thank you, Professor."

          Once she had left, Will turned toward Hannibal.

"We want to meet him?"

"Yes, we do. Did you forget already?"

"Oh, you mean about... Yeah sure. Sorry."

"About what?" Harry asked with a frown, as Hannibal was standing up from the bench.

"Do not worry, it has nothing to do with any matter of interest to you. That being said, I must go, and so must you, Hermione. Arithmancy starts in three minutes."

          Hermione quickly shoved her class schedule in her bag and followed Hannibal out of the Great Hall.

"What is that meeting about?" Harry asked again, this time to Will.

"Don't mind it."

"If it's about Voldemort..."

"It isn't. It's about school stuff."

"Well, talking about school," Ron interrupted, reading his class schedule carefully, "you've noticed how empty it is? We have so much free time!"

          He and Harry only had four classes and there was more free time than time dedicated to any other subject in their weeks. Will had three more classes than them, but even then, the blank areas of his schedule looked ridiculous.

"We even begin with a free period," Harry noticed. "We will be able to sleep in on Mondays."

"That's gonna be the best year ever!" Ron exclaimed.

"You think they expect us to fill that free time with personal work for our classes?" Will asked.

"Well, if so, that's an expectation I won't exceed."

          Going back to their Common Room after breakfast brought a specific kind of joy, and if Ron knew, deep inside, that the year was not going to be as restful as he wished, he skilfully ignored it for a whole hour, as he was playing chess with Harry, under Will and Orphy's bored gaze.

          The time flew by and, before any of them could notice, their free time had ended, and they were all heading to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. Ron was not too down about it. He was eager to get to know that new teacher. He still couldn't fully wrap his head around the fact that she was Hannibal's aunt, but still, she seemed infinitely better and more interesting than most of the teachers they had had until then.

"So? How was Arithmancy?" Ron asked once he found Hermione and Hannibal back, in the corridor in front of the classroom.

"Fine," Hermione simply answered. "It is much harder, and they give three times more homework, but it was to be expected."

          Hermione seemed rather detached while saying so, as if she wasn't already panicking for the essays and exams to come. It was a very unusual behaviour from her, but she hadn't mentioned school at all during the summer and Ron was seeing that as her finally growing out of her obsession for grades. It certainly couldn't be a bad thing. With a bit of luck, she would cut him and Harry some slack on their work habits. Free time wouldn’t be as enjoyable if she was always above their shoulders, worrying them about the future.

          Before he could say something to reply, he sensed someone pass by behind his back and he turned around to see Professor Murasaki opening the door leading to her class.

          Physically, she was a very impressive woman, Ron thought at once. As tall as him, she had a finely sculpted face that seemed so softly outlined Ron wasn't certain he could distinguish the exact features. She had long black hair, falling lightly on her back, her motions revealing some silver strands among them, along with a perfume of jasmine and green tea. Her eyes were very much alike those of her adopted son. They didn't have the same colour, nor the same shape, but both had the same depth and unreadable stillness. Hers were black however, just like her hair.

          When she passed by them, all the conversation faded into silence. Something about her was commanding focus and deference on her trail. Without a word, she opened the door, and entered, letting them follow closely behind.

          The classroom didn't have any new decorations. The official posters that Umbridge had kept on the walls had been taken off, but nothing had replaced them, leaving them bare and without personality. The tables had disappeared too, offering a large empty space in the middle.

          Whispers of excitement travelled along the crowd. No table meant no writing.

"I have been told that you have had quite the indecent amount of theory, last year."

          It was the first sentence Professor Murasaki said to them, and she did so in a quiet voice that didn't need much effort to be heard.

          A few bitter laughs ran through the class, at the memories of the unregretted Professor Umbridge, but most students were too focused on Professor Murasaki to react to her words.

"I believe it is time for more practice then. Please, stand in a circle."

          Eager to discover what that class would be about, and excited by the perspective of using their wand, they quickly walked toward the centre of the room and created an irregular circle in general confusion.

"You all know who I am by now, but let it be repeated," she said as the students had all found their place. "I am Professor Murasaki, and I will be teaching you Defence Against the Dark Arts for the year to come. But before anything else can be addressed, I feel that I must clear a matter off."

          They had all fallen back into perfect silence so as to listen to her next words carefully.

 "Yes, I am related to your classmate Hannibal Lecter. I am stating it here and now so as to leave no ground for any gossip."

          Ron thought it was a rather good idea to mention it upfront. He didn't trust himself with that information and he knew he would have leaked it out before the end of the week anyway.

"I must also reassure you: no there won't be preferential treatments of any kind, you can put your worries to rest."

          Right away, Smith's hand flew into the air.

"Yes..."

"Zacharia Smith. You said no preferential treatment, but you're still gonna give him points if he earns them fairly?"

"Zach..." Susan sighed by his side.

"It's a valid question," Smith defended himself. "If he can't get points because he knows the teacher, it's unfair to us Hufflepuffs."

          Before their small argument could get any further Professor Murasaki answered the question.

"I don't plan on implementing the point system you have going on in this school."

"What do you mean?" Parvati frowned.

"I believe you are old and clever enough to have outgrown it. I trust you to act according to your values and your interests, and not according to House pride. There won't be points given nor taken in this class. If you come here with a desire for learning, you will be rewarded with knowledge. If you do not, you will be punished with a waste of your time. I think it is the only incentive and the only threat you really need. You are here because you chose it. You can as easily leave."

"So... even if we work a lot, we won't be able to get points?" Ernie asked with obvious disbelief.

"I have been told you have many ways to acquire points. All of them will still be available to you outside of my classroom. I don't like the thought of using leverage to force you into education. Either you want it, or you don't. It is no one's choice but your own, and I will respect your decision, whichever it is."

          Mitigated mumbles could be heard around Ron. Some students were quite happy with that idea, relieved that their bad results would not be able to harm their House. Some of them, mainly in Slytherin and Gryffindor, were already smiling at the mayhems they would be able to pull off without consequences. Other students however, the brightest and most outspoken, were not too enthusiastic about it, considering it unfair that their hard work wouldn't be rewarded anymore.

          Ron, as for him, didn't mind at all. He couldn't even remember the last time he had earned Gryffindor any point in class. Even outside of class, the few times it had happened, it had only been because he had tagged along with Harry. However, he couldn't help but wonder what students like George and Fred could do with such freedom. Maybe Professor Murasaki was a tad bit too hopeful about them.

"Now, if every question is out of the way, we may begin."

          She waited a second to make sure no one was adding anything, and only after a moment of silence did she resume.

"We are all gathered here to learn how to defend ourselves against the Dark Arts. What is the first thing you need for such a feat?...Yes..."

"Seamus Finnegan, Ma'am. Uh... A wand?"

"It can be a valuable tool. But the very first thing you need in order to learn how to defend yourselves against the Dark Arts is to know what the Dark Arts are."

          The students felt a bit tricked by the question. The answer was too obvious to be given. Of course, they needed to know what Dark Arts were, but they already knew anyway. At least, some students had to be thinking that. But Ron couldn't help but remember something Hannibal had said a year ago or so. About Dark Arts.

"Who among you wants to try to give a definition of what Dark Arts may be?"

          A Ravenclaw hand tentatively rose, and Ron frowned at the lack of Hermione's eagerness to answer a teacher.

"Yes, Ms...?"

"Isobel MacDougal, Professor. The Dark Arts are a variety of dishonourable and unnatural spells that were invented in order to harm people."

"Excellent definition which, I believe, comes from your book, doesn't it?"

"Uh... yes."

"That definition is close to what most people think about Dark Arts. But, as often, broad rules do not work so well outside of their theoretical settings. Does anyone among you know... let's take the Gormlaith Curse as an example?"

          No one answered and, after a few seconds of awkward silence, Hermione finally raised her hand, reluctantly.

"Yes, Ms...?"

"Hermione Granger. The Gormlaith Curse is the name given to the sleeping curse historically casted by Gormlaith Gaunt on Isolt Sayre. It is a curse that puts its victim under a magic slumber of which one can never wake up. Unless the curse is lifted by the caster. In the myth, Isolt Sayre woke up on her own, but historians have always doubted that part of the story."

"Exactly. Is it deemed a dark curse, Miss Granger?"

"Yes. It is even against the laws to cast it."

"Yet, it is the Gormlaith Curse that is used in hospitals to create a safe and controlled slumber for patients undergoing painful procedures. What does it tell you, Miss MacDougal?"

"That Dark Arts are less about spells themselves and more about what we do with them?"

"Does that mean that no spells are inherently dark?"

"Yes, some spells are!"

          Neville had interrupted the conversation and, realizing that, he apologized quickly.

"Sorry, I...."

"It is alright, you can speak freely, Mr..."

"Neville Longbottom."

"What spell is inherently dark?"

"The Cruciatus Curse."

"A strong example. And according to what or whom the Cruciatus Curse is inherently and irredeemably dark?"

"I don't know... Basic humanity?"

"A bold point. As it is based on the idea that there is such a thing as a basic humanity upon which everyone agrees."

          She turned away from Neville and detailed every student gathered around her.

"Each of your answers brings us closer to a truth. Does anyone else want to try another approach?"

          Much to his own surprise, Ron raised his hand.

"Mr...?"

"Ron Weasley, Ma'am."

"What do you have to say, Mr Weasley?"

          With hesitancy, Ron looked around, noticing that everyone was fixing him, awaiting his words. Trying to remain focused, he searched his brain for the memories of what Hannibal had said to them.

"Well, Dark Arts are... a label."

"How so?"

"It's a... uh... a judgment. Like a morality judgment. That changes depending on who you're asking and when you're asking. Each society has its own limits and no-gos and that means they all have their own Dark Arts. Stuff that is okay somewhere isn’t somewhere else."

          Professor Murasaki detailed him in silence for a long time before finally nodding.

"I believe it is the closest we can be to defining Dark Arts today. Very insightful of you, Mr Weasley."

          Ron blushes heavily under Murasaki's praise. However, he had a vague bitter aftertaste in his mouth. Why was it that the only time he could answer something clever in class, it was for the one class that didn't reward house points?

"I still can't see how anyone could see the Cruciatus Curse as something other than dark," Neville firmly said.

"Some societies, during some time areas, believed that pain was a tool for education. And education was the way to bring the best out of humanity. Those societies didn't think so badly of the Cruciatus Curse. It wasn't so long ago that lesser forms of that curse were used on misbehaving children."

"That's sick," Neville insisted.

"To us, absolutely. But had you asked those people if they were practicing Dark Arts, they would have been shocked by the mere accusation."

          She went back to the whole circle of students.

"Is Dark Art whether what requires means that are immoral or against nature or what achieves ends that are immoral or against nature. But what is moral and what is natural change from one society to the next. And one species to the next.

          "It is an important definition to keep in mind, as it deeply impacts what you learn in this class. I will not teach you, this year, about Grindylow or Hinkypunk as I do not believe you would win anything by considering them as Dark Arts."

"During the Triwizard Tournament," Patil pointed out "that's what defeated Fleur Delacour in the second task."

"I didn't say they were not dangerous. But saying that they are immoral or against nature would show a very short sight on both moral and nature. Same goes for Acromantulas, Chimeras or Werewolves. All creatures I believe you studied in this class. They can absolutely be a danger to you. But they are not parts of the Dark Arts. Morality and nature don't objectively revolve around you and your safety."

"Then what are we going to learn? If everything's relative."

"Ms...?"

"Pansy Parkinson."

"If everything is relative, then we will work on the absolute. In this class, we will focus on the defence part, independently of what may or may not attack you. It will be up to you to decide for yourself what is immoral and what is not. Here, we will work to improve your skills, may they be magical, physical or intellectual, so that you are better equipped to deal with the relative and variable world that is waiting for you out there. Who among you knows how to cast the Shield Charm?"

          About half the students raised their hands.

"I would like for you to split into groups of two, pairing someone who knows the charm without someone who does not. You will help each other and once both of you are able to cast the charm, you will join me back into the circle."

          She took her wand from her sleeve and placed the tip of it in front of her mouth, she then blew softly and a white bubble of light grew in front of her face, before floating above her open palm.

"Does anyone know what that is?"

          A moment of silence before Hermione raised her hand again, when it was certain no one else would answer.

"Miss Hermione Granger?"

"A Crecente Halo. It is a sensitive breath of magic that grows in speed and strength when it meets other spells and charms but that shatters when it meets any physical object."

"Yes. Once you are back in the circle, we will pass it around. You will use your shield charm to deflect it and send it toward your classmates. If it shatters, we start again. The more you will succeed, the faster and stronger it will be, the harder it will get. But that is a worry for later. For now, teach or learn the spell."

          It didn't take much time for Ron. As most Gryffindors knew it thanks to Harry, he worked with Lisa Turpin, a Ravenclaw twice as clever as him who picked up on the spell in a matter of minutes. The both of them were quickly back into the circle, with a few other duos that had mastered the spell.

          However, Ron quickly realized that there was a huge difference between knowing how to cast the spell, and actually casting it during the exercise. More than magic itself, it required focus, readiness, speed and precision. Most of the time, Ron was able to cast it in time, but failed miserably at redirecting it toward someone else. And he wasn't the most ridiculous. A lot of students were completely unable to cast it in time, the halo shattering over and over again, against every inch of the walls behind them.

          The game – as most students ended up believing it was – seemed simple enough in theory, but in practice, very few people were able to cast the spell in time and reflect it with a somewhat decent precision. Harry, Hermione, Hannibal, Malfoy, and Padma were the only ones who could pull it off a majority of the time. The other students were so disorganized, slow, unfocused or imprecise that, by the end of the class, it had happened only three times that the halo had been successfully passed to more than two students in a row.

          However, no matter how bad they were, every student left the classroom with enthusiasm and excitement. Ron didn't remember the last time he had had that much fun in class since Lupin's final exam in Third Year.

"I don't really know what's her point," he said to his friends while they were all walking to the Great Hall, "but that was fun!"

"Her point is to teach us nonverbal magic," Hannibal casually informed.

"Where does that come from?" Ron asked.

          Professor Murasaki had not once mentioned wordless spells.

"I thought it was to develop our focus and precision," Harry said.

"It does do that. Because you have a terrible focus and precision. But if you had a decent amount of those skills, the exercise could more easily serve its primary goal. The more the halo will be passed around, the faster it will become. To the point where pronouncing the incantation will necessarily make us fail and we will have no other choice than to forgo it. She wants to teach us nonverbal magic, but she found a way to prevent the stress and the exasperation of a frontal approach. She relies on our instinct to help us get through the initial difficulty of nonverbal magic. By making us cast over and over the same spell, and by forcing us to focus on other matters and relegate it to the back of our mind, she hopes that we will instinctively turn to nonverbal magic once we will be left with no other choice."

"That's how you learned nonverbal magic?" Hermione asked.

"No. But that is a promising idea. And I believe it will work out for you. Just play the game, and you will come to that result naturally enough."

          Ron had trouble picturing himself succeeding at something as difficult as wordless magic. It was supposed to be for the best wizards only and it was well known that very few people could achieve such a level.

          But he wasn't too worried.

          He only had to play with a magic ball, he certainly wasn't about to complain.

          Draco Malfoy was not here to play.

          Not this year.

          Parkinson and Bulstrode had been shocked by his decision to leave the Slytherin Quidditch Team; he was shocked they hadn't seen it coming.

          No, not shocked. Disappointed.

          The more the days were passing by, the more obvious it was becoming that Draco and his friends were not living in the same world anymore. During lunch, none of them had been able to shut up about the new Defence teacher, when, really, who truly cared about classes?

          Draco Malfoy was sitting alone on the stairs leading to the dungeons. It was a more isolated path to access the potion classroom and he knew he would be left in peace here, away from the noisy and stupid children in this school.

          Between his hands, there was a long walking stick, of shiny black wood and silver handle. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, and it protected in its enchanted heart the concealed wand of Lucius Malfoy. Draco had hidden the object the day the Ministry had come to the Goyle manor to interrogate him and his mother and to take the few possessions Lucius Malfoy still had.

          Now, that walking stick was all that was left of Lucius Malfoy in Draco's life. He didn't even know where his father was at the moment. Probably in another country, under another name. It didn't matter. Draco didn't care. His father had run, and had left them behind. The house was burnt, the money was frozen, the dignity was gone.

          Lucius had run and Draco was left with cleaning the mess, carrying the Dark Lord's order, forced to succeed where his father had failed.

          Draco didn't mind. He could succeed. He could be of use to the Dark Lord. He had already found the Vanishing Cabinet. He now only had to learn how to use it. And, as for Dumbledore... He knew he could find a way.

          He had no other choice than to find a way.

"I wished we could have a word, yesterday evening. You left the Great Hall early."

          Draco didn't turn around. He knew that slow voice that had resonated a few steps above him.

"I have nothing to tell you," he simply answered, his fingers tightening around his father's walking stick.

          Snape walked down the few steps and stood in front of him.

"I believe there is a lot to talk about."

          Draco didn't answer, not even looking back at the teacher.

"You don't have to do it alone, Draco."

"Yes, I do! He asked me. Not you. Not anyone. Me! I'll do it. And I don't need anyone's help!"

          Draco stood up to walk away but Snape didn't move an inch.

"I promised your mother I would..."

"You should have left her out of it," Draco growled before stepping aside and walking past the teacher.

          He didn't need Snape. He didn't need anyone.

          Though he was able to walk away from the teacher, he was not able to get that far after that. At the end of the corridor was the potion classroom where he had to be for the next period. The other students were already there, however, and Snape had no other choice but to stop mentioning the mission of the Dark Lord.

          Very few students had managed to get the Optimal grade needed to continue Potions in NEWT level and the group was ridiculously small, but it was enough to put an end to Snape's attempts at conversation.

          The teacher simply glanced one last time at Draco before opening the door of the classroom and letting the students in.

          Quickly, Draco went to his usual seat, in the corner of the room. As could be expected, neither Crabbe nor Goyle had been able to get the necessary grade, but Draco didn't mind. He could use a break from their stupid faces. He couldn't ignore them completely. Goyle's parents were still welcoming his mother and both Goyle and Crabbe had a role to play in Malfoy's plans, but still, he was happy to be able to get away from them.

          Apart from him, there were only seven other students. The know-it-all mudblood, sadly enough. One of the Patil twins, along with two other Ravenclaws, Goldstein and Brocklehurst. Greengrass in Slytherin. Macmillan in Hufflepuff and of course...

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

          Hannibal Lecter had just sat down by Draco's side, putting his bag against the leg of the table.

"It so happens that my Potions class is about to start."

"Not here in the classroom. Here on that chair. You have the whole damn room to find a seat."

          It was true. They were too few to fill the space and, apart from the Ravenclaws that had stuck together, they were all dispersed throughout the room.

"I have been told that you have been quite interested in me recently. I thought we could use some time spent in close proximity to each other."

          Before Draco could tell Lecter to fuck off, Snape demanded the silence and began his class. The usual speech of the start of the term remained short and simple. They all knew why they were here, and Snape was not one for encouragement or small talks. In less than a few minutes, they all had a potion to work on. But before Draco could open his book to take a look at the instructions, Lecter spoke again.

"Tell me Draco, some interesting summer reads?"

          He knew about the book. Potter had told him.

          Without answering, Draco stood up and walked to Snape's desk to retrieve the ingredients he needed.

          The book he had stolen from the Restricted Section had been of no use to him. He had risked being arrested for it, but there was nothing inside. With all that had happened, he had had little mind to pay to the Lecters, but a quick reading of the family history didn't teach him anything. There was nothing muggle, nothing shameful, nothing forgotten there. He had wanted to find something, anything, that he could use as leverage to make Lecter pay for whatever threat he was to his mother.

          But there was nothing there. The perfect genealogy, the clean heir. That didn't mean Draco had given up. He was still determined to make him and his damn boyfriend pay everything they had done or threatened to do. But he still had to figure out a way to hit them where it would hurt the most. There was still too much he didn't know about Lecter and his parents, and he knew he wouldn't stop until he had reached the end of it.

          Running out of reasons to be away from his cauldron, Draco walked back to it, the ingredients in his hands. He purposefully ignored Lecter but the other boy didn't seem so willing to shut up.

"Tell me, Draco, where do your knack for Potions come from?"

"We're not friends. Won't you shut it?"

"We never had the possibility to become friendly."

"I want nothing to do with you."

"Of course, you do. How else will you be able to hurt me if you are not close to me?"

          Draco, who had resolutely kept his eyes on his cauldron, turned his head to face Lecter, taking a few seconds to consider what had just been said.

"What's your game, here?" he asked.

          He never got an answer, as Snape walked in on their conversation, interrupting them both.

"Lecter," he said, "I am pleased to see that you continued Potions. Regardless of any career path you may choose, it would be a waste of talent if you were to give up on that subject."

"There is nothing I hate more than waste, Professor."

"I also read what you wrote this summer."

          Draco had no idea what Lecter had written this summer, but the boy smiled.

"Did you like it?"

"I don't think you should have written it."

"I thought the prose to be pleasant."

"The problem is not your style. It is the topic. It shouldn't have been written about."

"A magical progress shouldn't be written about, Professor?"

"It is ground-breaking. The kind of paper that will follow you around, that academics will dissect, that students will use as sources."

"And how does that make it unworthy of writing?"

"It will be under scrutiny. Even long after the end of your school years. You will be asked about it. A lot."

          Draco was now curious what the hell Lecter had possibly written about during that summer.

"I sent them the instructions," Lecter answered. "They reproduced the phenomenon. The original experiment does not matter anymore, it has been witnessed again."

"And what will you answer when they will ask you about the first time you created that precipitate?"

"Do not worry, Professor. I will give you full credit for the brewing of the original potion."

          Draco only understood parts of the conversation, but it was obvious even to him that it was not what the problem was about, for Snape.

"I simply wished you would have warned us beforehand."

"I sincerely apologize if you found my politeness to be lacking. As I consider I have full paternity over the idea, I did not deem it necessary to ask for anyone's approval. However, taking you by surprise was not my aim and I hope you do not impugn my motives."

"I do not. I am simply warning you. If your paper receives half the attention it deserves, you will have many questions to answer."

"Thank you for your warning, Professor."

          Snape turned around and walked to the other side of the room, where Greengrass' potion was creating worrying black smoke. Draco was about to question Lecter about the conversation but before he could say a word, Lecter closed his eyes, moved his head forward and took a long, deep breath, as if sniffing the trail left by Snape.

"You're a creep! What's wrong with you?"

          Lecter didn't answer. He still had his eyes closed, though he wasn't breathing anymore, focusing on something that Draco couldn't pick up on. As if he was revelling in Snape's smell.

"You've found yourself a new crush, Lecter?"

"Is that question betraying a personal interest, Draco?"

"Fuck off."

          No matter his casual tone, something was now bothering Lecter, Draco could tell. He didn't say another word during the entire lesson, his hands moving automatically around the cauldron without any input from his mind. For someone who seemed in such a talkative mood a moment ago, whatever he had sensed had put a harsh end to it and sent him on another path altogether.

          Draco was relieved that Lecter had finally shut it and stopped acting as if they were some kind of casual acquaintances, but he couldn't help but wonder what had happened, and what was currently bothering Lecter.

          That was the main reason why, once the class had ended and everyone had gathered their stuff, and despite the fact that Draco couldn't stand the sight of him, he decided to follow the Hufflepuff student outside the classroom.

          Though he had climbed the stairs to the ground floor with the others, Lecter didn't walk to the Great Hall, but instead parted with the group to continue up the stairs. Seeing that, Draco didn't even hesitate. He waited a moment to remain out of sight, before tailing the Hufflepuff from a safe distance. The stairs were full of students on their way to dinner and it was then relatively easy to disappear among them.

          The shadowing hit an abrupt end when Lecter, who was walking up the stairs, met Graham, who was walking them down. When they noticed each other, Lecter grabbed Graham's elbow and guided him toward the closest arch, out of everyone else's way. Draco sped up and stopped right at the corner between the staircase and the corridor, leaning against the wall to remain out of the group but still close enough to overhear the conversation between his two enemies.

"Something's wrong?"

          It was Graham's voice.

"Not wrong. But noteworthy. I picked up on a scent, on Professor Snape."

"A scent? Of what?"

"Of magic. Last time, I was too caught up in Lady Murasaki’s perfume to notice, but I didn’t miss it this time. Hard to tell more from smell alone. If you could indulge me and take a look."

"Fine, as long as I don't have to talk with the guy. But that's gonna have to wait. McGonagall told me that Dumbledore's waiting for us. I was going down there to fetch you, actually."

"Then let's move on. I would hate to make him wait."

          Knowing that Dumbledore's office was on another floor, Draco quickly went back into the crowd and ran down the stairs, disappearing behind a corner below before Graham or Lecter could spot him.

          Deciding to skip dinner, Draco walked toward the Slytherin Common Room. He hadn't gotten much from the discussion between Lecter and Graham. He didn't know what ‘smell’ they had been on about. He hadn't noticed anything himself. However, Graham hadn't seemed surprised so it couldn't be unusual from Lecter. But whatever it was, it was about Snape, and Draco wasn't sure he cared. Snape was neither a help nor a danger, he was forgettable and Draco had other fights to win.

          Once back in the dormitory, Draco sat down on his bed, a long exhausted and frustrated sigh leaving his lungs.

          On his bedside table, the small red hard-covered book displaying the Lecter crest. Like a taunt. Or a threat. Draco wasn't sure.

          Slowly, he reached for it, picking it up cautiously, the red cover strangely cold against his skin. Under the soft light of the dormitory, he observed that crest observing him back. The snake at its centre not without echoing the ones around the Malfoy's one.

          There had to be something.

          In this book or outside of it.

          There had to be something that Draco could do to hurt Lecter.

          He simply had to dig deeply enough to find it.

          Albus Dumbledore didn't know if he was currently faced with a good surprise or not.

          On one hand, having Hannibal come to his office without his visit being forced by reprehensible circumstances was a good surprise, but on the other hand, Hannibal himself seemed to never end up being one.

          Will was there too, by his boyfriend's side, his hands shoved in his pockets and his eyes fixed on Fawkes.

"Thank you, Professor, for taking the time to have a word with us," Hannibal cordially said with a warm smile.

"I always make time for whoever needs to speak with me. How may I help you?"

          Will didn't take his eyes off the phoenix. It seemed obvious he was relying on Hannibal to carry the conversation. Albus realized the only times Will had ever stepped in was when they had discussed the event of Ilvermorny and when Hannibal had threatened him after understanding that he would need to spend the summer with the Dursleys.

          If Hannibal was deemed the social and outgoing one, Albus knew that it was ultimately Will who would do the talking whenever things were becoming trickier. For a moment, he pondered about what that was telling him about the two boys.

"It concerns our education," Hannibal said.

"What about it?'

"We thought some matters needed to be cleared off. For example, what about the punishment we had ongoing last year?"

"You've served it fully. You are now allowed to go to Hogsmeade, and you don't have to serve your weekly detention anymore. However, if you are willing, I would prefer that we continue our conversations."

"We are not," Hannibal said.

"We are," Will cut.

          His eyes didn't leave Fawkes, but his voice was clear and firm, leaving no room for disagreement. Hannibal detailed him from a second, his lips pursed oh so slightly, before he finally looked away, having decided to follow his boyfriend's lead.

"I guess we are, then" he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"I will be happy to receive you two every fortnight then. My schedule promises to be chaotic at best, and it won't be as regular as it was last year, but I will let you know when we can meet."

"We?" Will frowned. "What about McGonagall?"

"Professor McGonagall. I believe it will be better if I am the one with whom you communicate. Except, of course, if you specifically wish to continue with Professor McGonagall."

"No. It's better that way."

          And Will seemed to be glad indeed. Relieved maybe. But Albus wasn't certain if his joy was coming from the fact that Will would be talking to him, or from the fact that Hannibal would not be left alone with him anymore.

"That is cleared off," Albus resumed. "Was it all you wanted to tell me about?"

"There is more to it," Hannibal answered. "We wanted to talk about our future."

"I have read your article, this summer, Hannibal," Albus informed him. "It is a pioneering work that will enlighten many fields, from mediwizardry to chronomagy. I am sure it will open you many doors."

"Doors I am eager to cross. That is about that topic that we wanted to see you. Will and I discussed the matter at length, and we decided that this year is going to be the last we will spend at Hogwarts."

          Albus didn't answer right away, taking the time to receive that declaration. It wasn't what he had expected at all.

"What do you mean by that exactly? You wish to drop out?"

"No, we wish to graduate. Our plan is to take the NEWT exam in May, at Ilvermorny. They offer a session for external candidates. We checked and we can take that exam despite our history, since it does not require any enrolment. It is even not such a rare occurrence for expelled students to take part in that session in order to still be able to graduate. Once we have our NEWTs, there will be no need for a seventh year at Hogwarts."

          So, they had thought about it thoroughly. For how long Hannibal had been planning his way out exactly? Was it before or after the Dursleys?

"What do Lady Murasaki and Mister Graham think of that?"

"I will turn seventeen in January. My companion in August. By the start of the next school year, we will both be adults and allowed to choose for ourselves. And with our NEWTs, we will be able to pursue higher education. On our own."

          Albus detailed both boys carefully.

          That was a unique situation. No one graduated early from magical schools. Even he, who would have been able to pass his NEWT as soon as the beginning of his Third Year, had waited the end of his seven years before taking the exam. It had more to do with adulthood and tradition than anything else. After all, minors weren't allowed to practice magic outside of school anyway, there was no career they could really pursue, especially considering that wizards began their professional life very soon after their graduation.

          However, Will and Hannibal would both be adults by the time they began higher education, and there was no real reason to prevent them from proceeding with their plan. Even though Albus had never heard of it, there was no reason why it couldn't be possible.

"That is what you want to do too?" he asked Will.

"As he said. We talked about it. At length."

"You have passing grades but maybe skipping a year will be more than you can chew..."

"If I'm motivated, there's no reason why I couldn't. I can work and prepare."

"And you are motivated?"

"I'm motivated enough."

          Albus looked at Hannibal again.

"Why don't you want to do the last year here?"

"Why would I want to do it? When it is not necessary."

          Albus took a couple of seconds before answering, but he knew there were not many answers he could give.

"If you are determined about it, I can't find any reason to prevent you from doing it. I will allow you to leave Hogwarts in May to take the exams and, if necessary, to attend any interview you may need for the next year."

"Thank you, Professor."

"You already have an idea of where you want to go?"

"I have decided to do my med school at the Pygmalion Institute and Saint Thaddeus already asked me to do my internship with them. I am all set for the next few years. As for Will, he wanted to join the Academy of Federal Aurors, in the Special Section of Aurology they have there."

"They won't be too thrilled about your expulsion from Ilvermorny..." Albus said to Will.

"They will disregard it when they realize he is the first and possibly only Empath to ever achieve an education," Hannibal answered right away, without even a glance for Will. "It will outweigh any downside of his record."

          He wasn't wrong. Aurors would willingly blind themselves and ignore every danger if that could allow them to put their hand on someone like Will Graham.

"I see. You have solid plans, I can tell. If that is your will, you can proceed with it. With my help if you need it. Your Heads of House will assist you with the administrative parts. Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?"

"No, that will be all. Thank you for your time, Profes..."

"Actually, there is something else."

          Hannibal turned toward him, apparently left out of the know, but Will simply continued without acknowledging him.

"I don't know if you remember but last year, you told me that I could have a single room if I wanted it. Is it still possible?"

          Hannibal detailed Will carefully for a couple of seconds, then his face lost his surprised shine and, blank again, it went back to Albus. Patiently expecting an answer.

"I said so, yes. If you found dormitories to be overwhelming. Do you?"

"Yes, sir. Very."

          Albus was the first to know – if not admit – that he had many flaws. But stupidity was not one of them. He knew very well what was behind this. It wasn't about overwhelmness, it was about intimacy.

          He observed Will, then Hannibal.

          Hogwarts, as every school, had very strict rules about intimate relationships among students. But they had never been rigorously implemented. First because adults were far too happy to believe their children didn't have any desire of the sorts, and then because Dippet and then Dumbledore had believed there were other priorities in life than harsh repression of natural urges. They were careful about boys and girls, as very few wizards and witches of that age knew how to prevent pregnancies but, inheriting from the blind thinking of the last millennium, they had very few abilities to prevent private times between boys or between girls in the dormitories. And it wasn't even mentioning the many hidden passways or isolated recess where any couple of students could do anything they may desire together. Albus was not so prude that he believed students would hide only to kiss. He himself, as a teenager, had often heard stories from his friends, and he knew full well not all of them were invented.

          Will and Hannibal were past hiding behind bushes to kiss or hold hands, and though Will was asking a room for himself, Albus was fully aware Hannibal would be sharing it.

          He wasn't too happy about that. They were already spending nearly every waking hour together, Albus believed they could really use some time apart, especially time spent with other people. But he also knew there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Whether both boys would sleep together in the comfort and the privacy of a room, or they would do it in an abandoned classroom. Albus failed to see how the second option was in any way better than the first.

"If that is what you want and since I promised it to you, I will give you a single room. However it won't mean that you can wander off. After curfew you will only be allowed to be in your room or in the Gryffindor Common Room. Else you will receive detention like any other students."

"Yes. Thank you, sir."

"And it is a room for you alone. You are not to invite everyone over. If you do, both you and your guests will be punished accordingly."

          He had no plan on asking Minerva to check on them and make sure the rule was strictly followed. But still, he had to say it aloud, nonetheless.

"Yes, sir."

"I will let you know when the room will be ready."

"Thanks."

"Will it be all, this time?"

"Yes, sir. That's all."

          Hannibal nodded.

"Then you can go. You may still be able to grab some desserts."

          Will and Hannibal grabbed more than dessert.

          After the end of their appointment with Dumbledore, they left the office but, instead of rushing to the Great Hall for some scraps, they went to the kitchen where Hannibal fixed them a meal.

          Will was more than happy to see him cook again. Making him eat at the Burrow had been a headache. Hannibal didn't like the cutlery, the company, the setting of the table, the quality of the meat, there were a plethora of reasons for Hannibal to skip meal after meal. They had argued a lot about it, most arguments ending with Hannibal refusing to eat as much to spite Will as because he truly didn't want to.

          It wasn't as bad as with the Dursleys, but Hannibal had been through a hardship – mostly created by his own mind – and getting him out of it was taking more time than Will had expected.

          But now, they were back at Hogwarts, and Will knew he would drag Hannibal's ass in the kitchen every single day if it was what it would take for him to take a break from his resentment long enough to have a bite.

          However, this night, Hannibal seemed in an excellent mood, a smile playing on his lips as he was putting together a side salad to accompany their beef.

"You're happy," Will stated.

          He was sitting on one of the benches, observing the expert gestures of his boyfriend. The house elves were gone for the night and it was simply the two of them.

"Of course, I am," Hannibal said, his knife flying around to cut the red cabbage in thin and rigorously regular slices. "You remembered."

"The word I gave you? Of course, I did."

          Ironically enough, the day Will had promised Hannibal he would ask for a single room, it was already, back then, a shameless emotional manipulation to get his boyfriend to eat.

"I don't think he cares if you crash my room. Dumbledore I mean. I think he knows why I asked."

"Obviously."

"It's nice of him to say yes."

"Nice indeed."

"I wonder if he is not trying to mend what he did to you last year. What you did to yourself, let's be honest."

"Sadly enough, any effort on his part comes too late to prevent his death."

          Will, who had been picking up some cherry tomatoes to have something to chew on, waiting for the meal, stopped in the middle of his motion.

"What do you mean, his death?"

"I mean the death we will bring upon him. We will kill him before the end of the year, and it is too late for effort on his part to prevent that."

          The cherry tomato was right between Will's teeth, and it remained there, threatened and on the edge, for five full seconds, before Will carefully took it out and put it down on the table. Intact.

"We're gonna kill him?" he asked, making sure to keep his voice perfectly blank and toneless.

"Of course," Hannibal smiled without taking his eyes off the red cabbage he was mercilessly chopping. "Killing Petunia healed the injury, but the insult remains to be avenged."

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 6

The Lovely Smell of Fate

          Sheba had never had a great liking for children.

          More exactly, she minded them like she minded adults. With the same respect and the same politeness. No condescension, but no soft spot either.

          As she was looking in front of her, where all those children were sitting around the four long tables, she couldn't help but feel a latent emptiness inside. There was no sparkle of wonder, or no creeping fondness in her heart. They were faces without names that didn't move anything inside of her. Some made her curious. She was interested in watching them grow and being told what they would become. Some saddened her. She could guess the tragic stories behind the docility of their silence or the violence of their disrespect. But both her interest and her sadness were... distant. She was feeling from afar. More exactly, she knew she was feeling more than she was truly feeling.

          Sheba never had a great liking for children, but she didn't remember having ever been so cold. More worryingly, she couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when she had begun to drift away.

          Her eyes, which had been detailing the nameless faces of the crowd, stopped at the familiar features of Hannibal.

          She had not expected him to grow up to become such an exact portrait of Robertus. The two brothers had always been very similar, and Hannibal, who had of his mother only the natural veil of his voice, had taken a lot from his paternal line. The boy – and even now the soon to be man – had always sounded like his mother and looked like his father. At least, Sheba had thought. She had seen Hannibal grow, had detailed his red eyes, his harsh features, his straight hair and had guessed he would become the expected son of his father. But she had looked away for a year and he had come back to her with the exact same face that haunted the empty spaces of Robertus' large Castle.

          The impetuous artist had been the living core of the mansion and now, deprived of its burst of fantasy, it was left cold and unmoved. Much like Sheba herself. She had never minded loneliness, she could find beauty in it, but she longed for that part of her who had died with her husband. And she was fully aware that Hannibal, being both the only one sharing her grief and the only one carrying Robertus' legacy, inspired in her unwise feelings, blinding her from the boy's true self. She had agreed to help Dumbledore and take this job in front of all those nameless kids for the sake of Hannibal alone, and she couldn't let loneliness fool her into ignoring the dangers following her somewhat son like a halo.

"I don't remember seeing you."

          Sheba, who didn't know for how long she had been lost in her reflections, turned her eyes away from Hannibal's silhouette in the crowd and looked at the witch who had interrupted her.

          It was a small woman with grey hair and warm brown eyes. Sheba had already seen her once, the day she had met with the staff before Hannibal had joined Hogwarts. The woman was her nephew's Head of House. Her protective robe, the old brown stains over it, and the two heavy gloves hanging from her belt also told Sheba that her colleague was most certainly teaching something similar to either Magizoology or Botany. Sheba didn't yet know the exact courses offered by the school.

"I am sorry?" she simply said.

"In the staff room, yesterday evening. I don't remember seeing you there."

"Yes, indeed. I had a lot to do and a lot to think about, that evening."

"I can guess. It's always the same, the first week, right Minerva?"

          The witch sitting on the other side of the woman nodded wisely. Tall, with an emerald-green robe and a tight bun, she was not an unknown face either. She had been there at the staff meeting too.

"Always," Minerva approved. "Yet it is essential not to let ourselves be overwhelmed. It wouldn't do us any good to burn out the first week."

"What is your first name?" the first woman asked. "I don't think I ever heard it. If you'll allow us to use it, that is."

"Shikibu. It is true that I don't often hear it."

          She didn't ask for any of their names. She had never forgotten one, and Pomona Sprout and Minerva McGonagall were not forgettable women anyway.

"The first time we saw you," Pomona continued, "I would have never thought we would end up working together."

"To your defence," Minerva added, "the first time we met was under unique circumstances."

          No one answered, all reflecting one what these ‘unique circumstances’ had been.

"Hannibal is doing wonderfully," Pomona said with a smile, as if to reassure Sheba. "He had a difficult start, but now he is positively thriving. You've seen his OWLs results, haven't you? Only Os. You can be proud of him."

"I am. Deeply."

"I hope it is not too awkward," Minerva said. "Having him in class."

"I remember teaching my sister's son, five years ago," Pomona recalled. "It was a bit strange at first, but he wasn't my own son. That must be something else for you."

"We make do," Sheba answered. "He is mindful of that peculiarity and remains discreet in class."

          He hadn't said a word at all, actually.

"I think we can make it work by keeping our bond outside of the classroom. He is nothing less nor nothing more than a student, when class starts."

"I believe that is the good attitude to have," Minerva nodded. "Nothing is more detrimental to students than preferential treatments. No matter in what sense."

"I think I agree."

"I hope you'll join us tonight," Pomona said. "In the staffroom. It is good to be able to meet away from the students for a couple of hours, believe me. I could show you around, if you'd like."

"I would like that, thank you, Pomona."

"I'm glad. It is never a good thing to be isolated, and we all know how hard first days can be. Not only for students."

          Sheba wasn't sure her days would get any better.

          It was their second day at Hogwarts and Will was already exhausted.

          He had forgotten what it was like to share his days with hundreds of people. The constant noises and voices, the looming risk of possibly having to be sociable at any moment, the dramas and struggles walking the corridors, each of Will's senses were overwhelmed and burning after two months of relative rest and one day had been enough to take from him every ounce of energy he once had.

          Either that, or the all-nighter he had just pulled, busy thinking about Hannibal's intent of killing Dumbledore. His exhaustion could be the result of any of these two possible causes.

          No matter the starting reason, it ended the same way: Will had other things in mind than the Aguamenti Charm he was supposed to learn. Thankfully, he already knew it – thanks to his extended history with fires and dating someone who could use a bit of burning when it came to evidence – but even then, he could barely focus enough to produce a straight jet. Hannibal, on his left, had already casted a complex entanglement of sprays falling on the bowl in front of him like an extravagant fountain. Which wasn't without echoing the walls of the water castle Hannibal had built under the Great Lake. That was not helping Will take his mind off anything worrying and probably deadly...

          At the same table as them, Ron, Harry and Hermione had also gathered. Very few people had dropped out of Charms, and the classroom was even more crowded and noisy than usual, making it the perfect place to talk.

"I got a note," Harry said, his eyes on the shy sprays of droplets spurting from the end of his wand, "from Dumbledore."

          Neither Hermione nor Ron looked surprised, and Will guessed he had to have received it during breakfast, during which Will had been eating with the Hufflepuffs.

"Our first meeting is this Saturday evening," Harry continued. "He wrote to me so that I’d let you know too."

"I will see if it can be arranged," Hannibal cordially said while adding some finer details to his intricate water fountain.

"We will be there," Will cut him off. "Saturday evening. Noted."

"I can't help but feel left out..."

          Ron was shaking his wand, trying to make the droplets beading from the end of his wand fall faster into his empty bowl.

"You two get to help them, and Hermione and I don't. When we've known Harry and fought Voldemort longer than you."

"It's not about friendship or dedication, Ron," Hermione said, her wand on the table, her bowl already filled to the rim. "Hannibal is a very powerful wizard that is more valuable in the field than you and I can be."

          She had admitted it without disappointment nor bitterness, as if she didn't care anymore whether or not Hannibal was better than her. If he hadn’t had his own worries to monopolize his mind, Will would have read that fact as yet another proof of how deeply Hermione had changed since the Ministry.

"As for Will, they told us. He can help with whatever Voldemort uses to keep himself alive. But what would we be able to bring, you and I? Except more people to protect."

"Still," Ron shrugged. "I don't see how we're helping anyone by staying in our dorms."

"We have to trust Professor Dumbledore that he knows what he's doing."

"You'll tell us?" Ron asked Harry. "What you did."

"Of course. I'll tell you everything as soon as I'm back."

"There's that."

"Speaking of use and mystery..."

          After rooting the source of his spell into the water already in his bowl, Hannibal had put down his wand, his self-feeding fountain spraying its jets gracefully without his input anymore.

"I wanted to ask you about that Cloak of yours, Harry."

"The one you don't want me to have?"

          Hannibal offered a forgiving smile he clearly didn't have two days ago.

"As I said, I understand it is a meaningful object for you. I simply pointed out that it wouldn't hurt you to know it is a meaningful object for the whole world too. But that is not what I wanted to ask."

"What do you wanna know?" Harry said with a shrug showing he had no hard feelings against Hannibal.

"Did you ever lend it to a close friend in needs?"

"You wanna be that close friend?" Harry frowned.

"If I could benefit from its power for an evening, it may tremendously help me out."

"What do you need it for?" Ron asked.

          Will wasn't sure exactly. Hannibal was always following several schemes at once, and it was sometimes hard to keep up with which manipulation was for which end.

"I would like to learn more about Professor Snape," Hannibal said genuinely.

          Harry's eyes lit up at once, all his suspicion thrown out of the window, until nothing was left but positive curiosity.

"Why? I thought you liked him."

"I do. But liking doesn't prevent defiance. At least, for a wise mind."

"What are you suspicious about?"

"I noticed some details related to powerful curses on him. I believe I could learn more if Will and I could get closer at a moment when he does not expect us."

          Will knew what it was about. Hannibal wanted him to dwell on Snape to understand the source behind that strange smell he had picked up on.

"I'm willing to lend you the Cloak," Harry answered, "under one condition."

"I am listening."

"I'm coming with you."

"The Cloak won't be large enough to accommodate the three of us."

"It works fine with Ron, Hermione and I."

"It was already difficult last year," Ron reminded Harry. "And we've not been getting any smaller."

"Fine. But then, you promise you're gonna tell me everything you've discovered. That's the price for using the Cloak."

          Hannibal thought about it for a couple of seconds – his word was never to be carelessly given – then he nodded.

"A fair price I believe. Let me use it tonight, and I will tell you everything I will learn. If I learn anything at all, that is."

"Deal!"

"Mr Potter, I don't believe you are focused on your Aguamenti."

"Sorry, Professor," Harry said to the teacher from across the room.

          Will was not too excited about the perspective. He had promised Hannibal, and was curious himself, but that didn't mean he was eager. The mere idea of dwelling on Snape was enough to make him reconsider the whole plan. The guy's heart was raw and painful, and Will didn't want to touch it with a ten-foot pole, if he could avoid it.

          But he wanted to know what Hannibal had smelled. And everything that could take his lover's mind off Dumbledore was a good and welcomed thing.

          Therefore, he didn't voice his disgust at the thought of dwelling on someone like Snape and simply continued to cast his sad and tired Aguamenti.

          The next class was one of the few in which Hannibal was not following him. NEWT classes weren't exclusive to houses, as the number of students had dropped enough for them to be all together, and since Hannibal had continued all his classes, he was now sharing nearly every hour with Will. It was a drastic change compared to last year where they had to be careful never to be spotted close to each other. Now, Hannibal would hold his hand while walking to their next class, rest his head on Will's shoulder as they were sitting on the courtyard during recess and Will knew Hannibal was waiting eagerly for the cold season to be able to wear the Gryffindor scarf he had stolen from Will – more exactly had taken with no intention of ever giving back – a year ago.

          Will knew Hannibal was still healing from the separation. He had started to eat again, especially since he had announced his desire to kill Dumbledore, and, overall, he was less angry and bitter each time they had to split for more than ten minutes. But still, Will could tell there was something else. Not something obvious nor certain. Will himself, who thought he was rather good at reading and understanding Hannibal, couldn't tell exactly what it was. But he couldn't help but suspect that there was something, added to the wound of separation, feeding from it like a parasite that was making Hannibal more...

          Will didn't like to use the word fragility in relation to Hannibal. It was a profound misreading of what Hannibal was, and a misreading which could easily have fatal consequences. Hannibal was never fragile. But sometimes – rarely – Hannibal could be vulnerable.

          The first time Will had seen his vulnerability, Hannibal had displayed it on purpose. He had used it as a show of love and trust, he had explained to Will how his vulnerability to him was a statement of exalted adoration. Will had valued it deeply. The power that it was giving him over Hannibal finally matching the power Hannibal had over him. That didn't make any of them fragile. Simply beautiful.

          And Hannibal, up until now, had never displayed something similar for anything but Will. It was Will's tacit preserve. Yet, he could tell that the imperious need that Hannibal had to rely on him and his presence was not about Will. Will was here but a field upon which something else was being played. Something able to get under Hannibal's skin and deal both frustration and damage.

          What it was exactly about, Will couldn't tell yet. He knew he had to wait for it to solve itself or to worsen to the stage where it would point toward its true causes. In the meantime, Will didn't mind holding Hannibal's hand in the corridor, and hugging him a little tighter each time they needed to part for a class.

          And his first true class without Hannibal, Will messed it up and found himself in front of an empty room. It was Divination and he couldn't rely on Harry or Ron anymore, since the two of them had been far too happy to drop the subject forever. On his own, Will had rushed up the stairs to not be late for the first day, only to find that no one else was waiting in front of the ladder leading to Trelawney's classroom. Thinking he had to have misread his schedule, he had begun to walk back to the dorms before deciding to check Firenze's classroom first, which meant he had to walk down the seven floors he had just ran up.

          No one was waiting there either, but it was nearly ten minutes into the lesson anyway and he knocked, nonetheless. On the other side of the door, he met Lavender, Parvati, Megan, Susan, Oliver Rivers and Milicent Bulstrode. Firenze, standing in the middle of the half circle the girls were forming, gestured for him to enter.

"Sorry," Will tried to explain. "I thought it was Trelawney, our teacher, so... I was all the way up the Divination tower and the time it took me to walk down the stairs…"

"You didn't see the notice on the board?" Parvati asked. "They said Professor Trelawney and Professor Firenze had exchanged their classes."

"No. I didn't see it."

          Will never read the board. That would require too much emotional investment. He preferred to remain blissfully unaware of the world around him.

"What a great seer you'll make," Milicent snarked. "Maybe you'll want to learn to see the present before learning more about the future."

"That is quite alright, Mister Graham." Firenze intervened, ignoring the Slytherin student's remark. "Please, come join us."

          Will noticed that the other students' bags were all lying on the floor by the entrance. He put his with theirs and quickly joined the circle.

"Can anyone repeat to Mr Graham what we have been saying so far."

          Right away, Lavender's hand was in the air and she was allowed to proceed.

"We are going to spend the first semester on Aurology," she explained, catching Will's interest at once.

          He guessed he was about to see if he indeed had the talent for it Firenze was certain he had.

"Aurology is the art of studying auras, or the distinctive atmosphere that surrenders a place, a person, or an object. Aurologists can understand those auras, identify them and even sometimes extrapolate around them to be able to see its past and guess its future."

"In this class," Firenze picked up once Lavender was done with her explanation, "you will practice that specific reading of the world. It requires extreme sensitivity. Some of you may be naturally clairsentient, but in any case, sensitivity can be worked on. Even if you are interested in more common forms of Divination, a basic knowledge of Aurology can always help understand the big picture. If you wish to truly thrive in the art of Divination, you cannot do without its most abstract branches.

          "I was about to present the exercise to you, before Mr Graham joined us. As you can see around you, I brought together a collection of tokens for you to take a look at."

          Will looked around him. In the natural decor that was Firenze's classroom, four tables had been taken from another classroom and gathered here. On each table, a duo of two perfectly similar objects. On the first one, two small cups filled with dust; on the second one, two large wood shavings; on the third one, two white stones; on the fourth one, two piles of ashes.

"On each table, there is one of these tokens that I have taken from a scene of great tragedy, and an exact replica I found somewhere more peaceful. I want you to spend the hour around those objects, learn about them, get a feel of them. I am not expecting you to be able to guess what has happened. But try to differentiate the two objects. Try to guess which has been marked by tragedy and which has not. I also want you to write down what you feel. It can be physical or emotional. The more sensitive you will become, the more you will react to your environment. It is essential that you begin early the process of learning about yourself. Only once you know yourself and how the world influences you, will you be able to work on how to interpret those sensations. Never forget that, in Divination, it is your instinct and your senses that will whisper the truth to you."

          The students remained indecisive for a moment before Firenze walked to the wall to let them get closer to the table.

"Go ahead. Feel free to try any approach you may think of."

          Parvati and Lavender were the first to move forward, eager to get started. Milicent, Megan and Susan followed closely after, all of them at a loss as to what to do. Oliver remained a step behind, watching from afar the other girls’ approaches.

          Will didn't move. Even from here, he could already tell the story of those objects. It was too overpowering for Will to need to get any closer. He was used to more refined horror. Instead, he decided to join Professor Firenze in the back of the classroom.

"The exercise does not interest you, Mr Graham?"

          The teacher didn't seem reproachful, simply curious. And Will proceeded to point at each token of tragedy to summarize it in one word.

"Betrayal, terror, death and..."

          He detailed the pile of ash for a second, pointing at the left one while looking for the exact words:

"Family reunion," he ended.

          Firenze didn't even look toward which object Will was pointing. He simply smiled, unsurprised.

"I told you before that you had a gift for Aurology," he said.

"That's it? That's what Aurology is?"

"That's what a first approach of Aurology is. There are much more complicated practices. But I believe you already have gone further into that art that I ever did. Am I wrong?"

          Will thought about Harry's blood.

"Maybe..." he shrugged. "So Aurology and Empathy, that's the same?"

"Empathy is an ability, not a practice. It would be like saying that someone is a writer because they have a quill. Your Empathy offers you an unmatched sensitivity to auras, but it is your intelligence and your creativity that make you a prodigy of Aurology."

"Not all Empaths are good Aurologists?"

          Will couldn't really see how someone with his ability could be unable to do what he was doing so naturally.

"Empaths are not good Aurologists," Firenze said. "Empaths are dead."

          Will didn't know what to answer, taken by surprise by the bluntness of Firenze's statement. The centaur had said this without harshness but with the clarity of obvious fact. As if there was no tragic reality behind, simply nature and its cycles.

"You are a year older than the oldest Empath we can remember. Every one of them dies or mentally disappears before the age of fifteen. You did not. Something about you made you thrive. Something gives you the ability to handle your condition, and use it instead of submitting to it. That thing could well be what makes you a good Aurologist. And I also suppose that it makes you shine in many other unrelated fields. Aurology simply happens to be the one I teach."

"Still, I don't think I'd be half as good without Empathy."

"Your Empathy would be but a useless burden if you were not able to understand what it is telling you. I believe you have a terrific intelligence, Mr Graham. The kind I have rarely seen in my life. But you have been told too much the contrary that you yourself don't see it anymore."

"I don't think I'm stupid. Never thought so."

"Maybe not."

          Firenze didn't seem too convinced, but he didn't seem too interested in convincing either.

"I asked to exchange my classes with Professor Trelawney," he finally said.

"So, we were supposed to go with her!" Will exclaimed. "I knew I'd been told something like that."

"Yes. We exchanged our classes yesterday evening. Professor Dumbledore wanted me to teach the third, fourth and fifth Years. But I wanted to accompany you in your discovery of Aurology. Despite my respect for Professor Trelawney, I do not believe she is equipped to help you with it."

"You are?"

"I am not an Aurologist, if that is what you are asking. But I know my fair share about Divination and its multiple forms. I am sure there is some knowledge I will be able to share with you in the years to come."

"The year," Will corrected. "One. In June, I'm out."

          Firenze frowned. Apparently, Dumbledore hadn't said a word about it yet.

"How so?"

"We've decided we are going to take our NEWTs at the end of the year."

"Who is that we?"

"My boyfriend and I. He is eager to graduate."

"Are you?"

"I wouldn't do a year without him anyway."

"I believe that you will have no trouble getting ready in time for your Divination exam. However, I am not planning on tailoring the class to that end. I believe there are more important matters for you to learn than exam material."

"That's fine. I can work on my own. I know I'll manage."

"I know that too. And I hope..."

"Sir! I have a question."

          It was Parvati who had called from the other side of the room, as she was taking a closer look at one of the two stones. With a small bow of the head, Firenze took leave of Will and went back to the group of students.

          Will remained outside of it, watching them move around the four tables from afar. He didn't remember ever having a teacher that truly had a good opinion of him. He had been hated at Ilvermorny, and even at Hogwarts, the kindest thing often said to him had been how his lack of commitment was a waste of potential. It was nice to have someone believe the best of him, and so fully certain of his intelligence. Only Hannibal had ever been so vocal about it, and Hannibal was riddled with biases.

          At the end of the class, the small group of students gathered and tried to figure out together which tokens were the ones they were interested in. It seemed to be a hard exercise for all of them, and only Parvati, Lavender and Milicent were able to have a correct opinion most of the time. They all seemed pretty down by the lack of results, but Firenze promised that efficiency and accuracy would come with time and work.

"Before we part, let me tell you about your homework."

"Please, not another dream diary," Oliver said, and Will wholeheartedly shared her distress.

"No. Nothing related to dreams, I assure you. This homework will require you to walk around Hogwarts."

"Easy," Milicent said, "I've been doing that for years now."

"Then it is time to forget all those years and try again as if it was your first time. Hogwarts has welcomed and gathered witches and wizards for centuries. And with them, their magical prowess. I want you to walk the ground and search for the echo of a strong manifestation of power. May it be from the Founders, or from brilliant students, it does not matter. I want you to be able to pick up on a magical aura and study it. You will then write everything you can tell me about it."

"For when is it due?" Megan asked.

"I won't give a date right away. You still first have to figure out how to pick up on auras. But I wanted to tell you about it so you could be on the lookout for anything you may want to write about."

          Knowing his schoolmates – and himself – Will knew there was nothing they wanted to write about. But even then, the exercise didn't seem that tedious and wouldn't require them to spend hours looking into books ten times older than them. It was a win if anything.

"How long must it be?" Oliver asked.

"You should know by now that I do not give lengths. But I want an exploration in depth. Don't save your words, I am curious to read them. If there are no more questions, then we will end the lesson here for today."

          The students were eager to leave the classroom after those words. It was their last lesson of the day, and they were all too happy to join the Great Hall for dinner. All but Will. He and Hannibal had planned to make the best of that shared distraction to slither in the staffroom while it was empty and wait there for Snape. They had decided to eat afterwards, for the sake of convenience but also because Will didn't want to dwell on someone like Snape with anything but an empty stomach. They would have troubles justifying why they were caught throwing up under an Invisibility Cloak in the staffroom after curfew.

"Will!"

          Will stopped in the middle of the stairs, waiting for Lavender and Parvati to catch up with him. The two girls expertly pushed aside the First and Second Years on their path to get to Will.

"Where are you going?" Parvati asked.

"Uh... Going to catch Hannibal at the end of his Arithmancy class..."

          He really hoped they didn't plan on following him around. He didn't want for Hannibal to have to get rid of them, even in a polite and relatively safe fashion.

"It's on the Ground Floor, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Then we can walk together for a bit."

"Sure..."

          Will didn't have much of a relationship with any of the two girls. Lavender and Parvati mostly kept to themselves and, since Hermione didn't like any of the four other Gryffindor girls, Will, who spent most of his time with her, Harry and Ron, had never really gotten to know them. He simply knew about them what he had been able to see from afar, that they had a gift for Divination, that they were both excellent gobstone players, and that they had the kind of friendship that lasted a lifetime.

          Apart from that, and the occasional exchanged greetings, he had never truly talked to them more than once or twice and he therefore had no idea why they wanted to suddenly walk with him.

"Great exercise, uh?" Parvati said. "The token things."

"Yes. Better than diary keeping at least."

"Gosh! I couldn't with these dream diaries anymore," Lavender rolled her eyes. "I mean, they are a great tool, but they are so boring to keep! And Firenze was so much more severe about them than Trelawney..."

"That's the thing!" Parvati nodded. "He would always tell us how oniromancy was stupid and we could only tell the future in stars and smokes, yet if we didn't keep a perfect dream diary, he'd ask us to redo it. I mean, be coherent!"

"That being said," Lavender commented, "your dream diary was awesome, last year! You really made it so clean and beautiful!"

"Thank you! I spent so many nights on it!"

          Will let them talk without understanding his real place in the conversation. Not that he minded, it wasn't so different than when Ron and Harry would talk about Quidditch teams or Hermione and Hannibal about muggle literature. At least, here, he had an understanding of what was being said. He just didn't know why Lavender and Parvati had rushed to him.

"You liked keeping that diary?" Lavender asked him.

"No. It sucked."

"Preach."

"And you like what we did today better?" Parvati wondered.

"Yes. A lot."

"We were wondering because you didn't do the exercise so..."

"Yeah, well, I already know how to do that. So, I felt it was better for you to discuss your conclusions without my input. It wouldn't have been of any use."

"You know, Will," Parvati said, “that's what's great with you, compared to the other Gryffindor boys. You're not a show off. Unlike some others."

"Stop it already!" Lavender exclaimed. "He is not a show off!"

"Simply because he has nothing to show off about. I tell you he is like all the other boys."

"Who are we talking about?" Will questioned.

"Lav is very interested in one of the Gryffindor boys..."

"Shut up!"

"... and not the brightest one."

"Shut up!"

"Who's the brightest Gryffindor boy?" Will asked, amused.

"You're supposed to ask who I'm interested in," Lavender said, somewhat offended by Will's lack of interest in her crush.

"Fine, who are you interested in?" he indulged.

"Why do you think I’d tell you?!" she stated while crossing her arms.

"Ron Weasley," Parvati told for her.

"Parvati!"

"Ron? Really?"

          Will had to admit he hadn't seen it coming. He would have probably named all the other Gryffindor boys before him.

"Yes, really," Lavender said, already defensive. "Why?"

"That's my line," Will said, "why?"

"I don't know... He is cute, for starters."

          Will wouldn't argue with that. He knew he had shitty tastes and Lavender had certainly spent more time wondering about boys than him.

"Yeah, has he ever spoken to you? To say more than 'hi' and 'hand me the watering can' that is."

"Not really... But I know he is a great guy. Sensitive and all."

          Will failed to hold back his laugh but Lavender stopped it at once.

"Ron has feelings, you know!"

"Trust me, I am fully aware. Everyone has feelings. Doesn't mean everyone is good with them. Ron has great qualities. Sensitivity, I wouldn't put it among them."

"I think, deep down, he is a sensitive guy."

"Maybe," Will shrugged. "You're gonna talk to him?"

"Don't know... What if he is not interested in me?"

"Of course, he will be."

          And it wasn't empty words to comfort her. Will could already tell. Not because Lavender was Ron's type, but because he was so hurt from always coming second that being chosen by anyone would mean a great deal for him. That didn't mean it would be any good for Lavender, however.

"You think?" Lavender asked, wanting to be reassured.

"I told you so, already," Parvati rolled her eyes. "First, you're beautiful! You can have anyone. And second, he is a boy. He is desperate for the attention of someone like you. But you can do so much better, Lav'."

"In this school?" Lavender pointed out. "As if. There's no one interesting here."

"There is!" Parvati insisted.

"Stop with Hannibal already, he is not my..."

          Horrified, Lavender slammed both her hands over her mouth, her wide guilty eyes going back and forth between Parvati and Will. Parvati's horror was matching Lavender's and Will could tell she was praying to disappear at once.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to..." Lavender began, unable to finish her sentence.

"It's not like if... you know..." Parvati tried to say.

"It's alright," Will brushed it off. "I really don't mind."

          Will already knew anyway. Had known for a year. He was very careful about what others thought of Hannibal, and he had as good a memory when it came to keeping track of those who loved him as he had for those who hated him.

"It's a compliment," Parvati said. "It means you have good taste."

"Sure."

          Will felt merciful enough to offer them a distraction.

"That being said, I still wonder why you wanted to walk with me. If you think I'm gonna play some role between Ron and you, I can already tell you..."

"That's not it. And if you so much as say a word to him, no one will ever find your body."

"Death threats. My favourite."

"We really caught up because of Divination." Parvati said. "But then we got side-tracked with Ron, and... Anyway. We were wondering, how does that make you feel?"

"How does that make me feel?"

          Hearing those very connoted words in Parvati's mouth was weird, to put it mildly.

"Yes. The tokens. How do you... sense them? How does tragedy feel?"

"Oh, I see. Well..."

          He tried to find the right words, but it was not an easy matter to discuss.

"Divination is not like other magical fields. There is no spell or anything. It's more... within, I guess? And it won't feel the same for you as it does for me."

"How does it feel for you? Just so that we have an idea."

"It feels... sad? I have nothing clever or ground-breaking to say. Tragedy's sad. I feel like there is this latent, passive sadness, and I can't pinpoint any cause. It may be that the sadness doesn't come from me, and that's how I know there is something to dwell on."

"Melancholy," Parvati said.

"Uh?"

"Latent sadness without any cause. It's melancholy."

"Maybe. Anyway. Firenze was right. You need to be aware of yourself or else you won't know what comes from something else."

          It felt weird for him to give lessons about sensitivity. It was even laughable, when his disabled self had been meant to learn from others his all life and had remarkably failed over and over. It was exactly as if Lavender and Parvati were asking him advice on something he was known for screwing up every single time. He wasn't sure how much the girls were actually learning from his words, but still, it was with a mitigated aftertaste that they all reached the Great Hall.

"That's where I part," Will said.

"Yes, of course. Tell Hannibal Parvati said hi! See you."

          The two girls crossed the large door and Will turned around to go join his boyfriend.

          He found Hannibal, as expected, in front of the Arithmancy classroom. All the other students had already left, and Hannibal was waiting for him, his back against the wall, his bag between his hands.

"You've been up to something?" he asked when he saw Will approach.

"Small talk. Sorry."

"It is just as well. We needed to give Harry some time to fetch the Cloak. We are to meet him at the bottom of the grand staircase."

"Let's go, then."

          They walked to where they were expected and realized that Harry was already there. However, he didn't leave a second for Hannibal to apologize, he quickly shrugged it off and shoved the Cloak in Hannibal's bag before any passer-by could see it.

"You're gonna be careful, right?" Harry asked.

"More than you are used to for yourself," Hannibal promised.

"And you're gonna tell me what you’ll find?"

"As I said."

"Ok, then I'll go join Ron and Hermione. Take care."

          He quickly jumped the last steps of the stairs before walking away toward the Great Hall.

          Will and Hannibal went up, however, to the higher floors, and took the opposite direction to reach the staffroom.

"You're sure he's gonna be there?" Will asked.

"I am not. If he is not there, we will simply wait for the curfew and beyond it, then go to his chambers. But I would prefer not to stand by his bed while he is sleeping. That would be rude."

"Downright creepy."

"And we wouldn't want to be rude.”

“Nor creepy."

          When they arrived in front of the door, Will noticed that two stone gargoyles, one by each side of the entrance, were guarding it.

"You shouldn't be here, Guttersnipes," one of them said with a high nasty voice.

"Go back to your plates."

          Hannibal disregarded the demand and kindly asked.

"There is someone I want to see."

"There's no one here. Let alone someone that would want to see."

"No one here? How very convenient."

          Hannibal took his wand out and softly pointed it at the end of the Gargoyle on the right.

"What do you think you're doing?" asked the Gargoyle on the left.

"Will you believe it!" the Gargoyle on the right laughed. "He thinks he can curs... he can... He thinks h... He..."

          Never the sentence fully left the stone lips. The Gargoyle tried, stumbling upon its own breath, as if its thought was bumping over and over into an invisible wall, incapable of moving forward anymore. Then finally, a bright flash left the tip of Hannibal's wand and a resonating crack followed just after, as if something had just broken in the depth of the stone figure, somewhere where a brain could have been. The light left the gaze of the Gargoyle who stopped moving and stopped talking, its mouth hanging open, unused.

"What... what have you done?" the Gargoyle on the left – the one that had used that unfortunately disrespectful word to address Hannibal – cried. "How dare you..."

"Hush," Hannibal cut it sternly, his voice cold and sharp. "When one does not have anything clever to say, one does not say anything."

          Hannibal drew a quick and precise circular arc with his hand in the air and, following the motion, the mouth of the Gargoyle ripped itself from the rest of the head and fell heavily on the ground, breaking into a cascade of small pieces of stone and dust.

          Will looked at the braindead Gargoyle, then at the muted and disfigured one.

"You escalated it quickly," he commented.

"They called for it."

          Hannibal drew small arabesques with his wand in front of him and, for a second the air vibrated before the two Gargoyles put themselves back together, as lively as they were a minute ago.

"You healed them?" Will was surprised by such an act of generosity.

"Of course, no," Hannibal reassured him quickly. "I hid them. Behind an image of themselves."

"The real ones?"

"One is no longer there. The one that is still here will simply witness everyone interact with their image without being able to reach out to them. They can simply wait in silence for my death to dissipate the illusion."

          Hannibal had said that line while staring right into the eyes of the Gargoyle on the left. As if he could see behind his own spell and deliver the sentence to the broken statue behind.

          Then he turned toward Will and smiled.

"Let's proceed," he said while gallantly holding the door for his boyfriend.

          Will offered a sympathetic smile to the victim and preceded Hannibal inside.

          The staffroom was nothing exceptional. With its panelled wall and mismatched chairs, there was nothing to catch one's attention. A huge fireplace, certainly connected to the flu network, was tacking most of the back wall and, on the few tables that could be spotted, stacks of books and parchments were telling of which teachers used it the most.

"We need to find somewhere out of the way to stand," Hannibal said. "Invisibility is not intangibility."

"How about against this window? With all those books in front of it, I don't think they open it often, and if we can climb over there, we will have plenty of space to sit and wait."

          The window that Will had pointed at had a large sill that could accommodate the both of them, and the table that had been put in front of it was reducing considerably the chance of anyone bumping into them.

"Fine. Not very dignified but very fitting for the task at hand."

          Ignoring Hannibal, Will was already making his way toward the table, climbing on top of it and carefully stepping over the books to slither into the natural alcove formed by the windowsill.

          Hannibal followed him with a bit more hesitation, before finally being able to sit by his side. He then took the Cloak from his bag and, after curling against Will, he spread it on top of them both. As they were both sitting, their legs against their chest, the Cloak was more than large enough to cover them without any trouble, efficiently hiding them away. Therefore, if Will passed an arm around Hannibal's shoulders it was more out of desire than out of necessity.

"How long are we gonna wait?"

"Until the end of dinner. More if he doesn't come here."

"I'm fine with that."

          They remained there, in silence, for a while, enjoying the quietude of the room and the break they were taking from a very busy couple of days. It was only after more than half an hour that Will wondered:

"What does it smell like, by the way?"

"Mmh?"

"Magic. You said you smelled it. What does it smell like?"

          Hannibal thought about the question for a second, his fingers absentmindedly drawing abstract motives on Will's knee.

"Asking what magic smells like is like asking how food smells like. It depends."

"On what?"

"On what is charmed or cursed. If it's the blood, it smells sour. Like ammoniac. If it's the mind, it smells resinous like myrrh and burnt incense."

"What did Snape smell like?"

"It was empyreumatic. Like ash and dust."

"It's the smell of what?"

"Of fate."

          Will pondered on that word for a while, trying to figure how that smell would feel for him. Hannibal and he had very different and very complementary senses, and it was sometimes difficult to translate their experience into the other’s language.

"Will it hurt me?" he ultimately asked. "Like Harry's blood hurt me."

"I don't know," Hannibal answered truthfully. "I don't know what you will discover. Whatever it is, I am not leaving your side and I will help you back."

"It's nice, but it doesn't prevent the pain, Hannibal."

          He wasn't hesitant, however. He wanted to do it and discover what Hannibal had picked up on.

"Someone is coming," Hannibal warned and, sure enough, the door opened a couple of seconds later.

          It took them yet another half hour in the slowly filling staffroom, before something interrupted their passive waiting. By reflex, Will elbowed Hannibal but his friend had noticed Lady Murasaki the second she had entered the room. She remained by the entrance for a couple of seconds, uncertain as to where to go, when Sprout walked to her with a large smile and invited her to join her and Minerva on the couch near the fireplace.

"It's weird to see her here," Will whispered in Hannibal's ear.

          The ambient sounds of chatter and buzzing were now loud enough to allow the two lovers to talk to each other in a carefully low voice.

"Stay focused," Hannibal simply said, "we are here for someone else."

"You don't find it strange?" Will insisted. "It's not really her vibe."

"Will, please."

          Will stopped mentioning it but he didn't take his eyes off Lady Murasaki. For a second, he wondered what would happen if he were to dwell on her. Hannibal's aunt was a mysterious and unreadable figure, much like Hannibal himself. Will had spent a summer with her and still knew very little of her when she had learned a lot about him. She was the kind of dark and still abyss who could manage to attract Will's rare interest and curiosity. Her eyes were giving nothing away, nor did her words, and Will didn't have the first idea of what could possibly lay behind them.

"Will, I told you to remain focused," Hannibal whispered.

"I am very focused."

"Then I'm sure you have noticed who just entered."

          Will looked at the door and realized that Snape was standing a few feet away from it. He seemed just as gloomy and grim as usual, his long black robes reflecting the yellowish glow of the fireplace. He was picking up some books on one of the tables and didn't seem to plan to sit down.

"He won't stay long," Hannibal guessed. "Now is our chance."

          Will took a long breath.

          The last time he had done that, he had died in his own head. It hadn't been a pleasant experience and he was not about to rush into this. However, Hannibal was right, and Will didn't think Snape would stay long.

          It had to be now.

          After expelling all the air from his lung, he observed Snape carefully.

          He now knew by heart how to do it. How to slightly shift the point of view to see through matter and emotion and reach the magic hiding in-between.

          The room darkened, covering itself in a veil of the same shade as Snape's robes. Erasing from his sight everyone else, Will focused.

          As he was slowly moving his head, he could see a strange glow around the man. As if, whatever it was, it could only be seen by the reflection of the light falling on it. A light that remained rare in that darker world.

          It wasn't Snape. Not really. It was something that had created itself around the teacher. Like some sort of parasite feeding from it. It wasn't an Horcrux, like it had been for Harry. It was less intimate. Less deep. But Will was sure, it was what Hannibal had sensed.

          He tried to extend his hand, but something blocked him. His physical senses warned him that someone had grabbed his arm. Certainly Hannibal to prevent him from leaving the safety of the Cloak. That didn't truly matter, Will imagined an extended hand, and it was good enough for him, as his pictured fingers brushed over that strange reflection.

          It was time to figure out what it was about.

          He is at the centre of a dark living room.

          Dark and oh so small.

          He can't see the walls; they are covered in books. Black leather-bound dead objects of knowledge.

          As good a cell as any.

          He can't see it, but he knows the books are hiding the humidity and the mould eating the walls. Eating the whole house.

          Will knows that place from before the book. He was born here. Has grown up here.

          The books are around him, but he can still see what was hiding the walls before them. The violence, the insult, the neglect.

          The endless hours of loneliness, and the screams of his parents next door.

          Will is perfectly able to see beyond the curtains of books he has sewn himself.

          No, Will needed to focus. He needed to set the path of his Empathy, not the other way around. And for that, he needed to narrow his gaze.

          There is a woman in front of him.

          Fragile beauty and fair skin. Made old only by worry and bitterness.

          Will knew that essence. He knew from where was coming the halo around Snape. He had seen that despair before. Had even played with it a bit. Pocked around and watched it roar.

          The woman is in front of him.

          He expected her. And here she is.

          Narcissa Black is looking back at Will.

          No. Narcissa Malfoy. Though he knows her from before that.

          From before motherhood.

          "I need your help, Severus," she begs.

          She would never have begged before motherhood.

          "I will help," Will says coldly.

          He has already promised as much to someone else, anyway. It doesn't take much from him. And he is sincere.

          He will protect the boy. He is but a child who is on a path of bad, irreversible decisions. Will knows that path all too well. And since he is already long lost to it, there is nothing else left for him to mourn, therefore he can as well extend a hand.

          "I need you to promise, Severus," she continues to beg. "Please, vow it."

          Will already knew it would come. He is not surprised. Narcissa still has no news of her sister, and now her son...

          He expects nothing but despair from her.

          "I will."

          "A vow you can't break?"

          "A vow I can't break."

          Will extends his hand.

          He knows he is probably selling his life away. But he can't find it in him to care.

          Everything smells of end anyway and maybe there is finally someone he won't fail.

          Will was back to himself in an instant. Effortlessly. He could still feel it vibrating in his chest. The tear born from the meeting of Snape's disillusion and Narcissa's despair was vivid, but Will knew how to handle it. How to carefully keep the neuralgic pain away from the centre of his brain, reduced to a background nuisance.

          He remained there for a moment, relinquishing control, perfectly balancing overwhelmness and indifference as if both were but innate gifts to him. He took the time to detail this slow, chiaroscuro world that his imagination had projected around him. A world of controlled sensitivity. The idle silhouettes he had ignored.

          His eyes lingered on one of them.

          And he wondered if he would dare.

          How rude would it be to dwell on Lady Murasaki?

          He could sense Hannibal against him, the warmth of his body, the steadiness of his self. And, in front of him, the unreadable silhouette that was Lady Murasaki.

          Hannibal wouldn't like that.

          On the other hand, wouldn't he do the exact same?

          If he was able to, wouldn’t he take a peek at what was hidden?

          Of course, he would. Have a look and mess around. For the sake of it. That was his creed. Will would be kinder. He simply wanted to do what he was now able to do.

          Therefore, without leaving Hannibal's arms, he sank into Lady Murasaki's mind.

          Heavy rain.

          It soaks the soil until it is left as dark as the sky.

          It is the middle of the night and Will is cold.

          But he knows someone is much colder than him.

          He is under the safety of the roof, his bare feet on the wet stones of the perron.

          But Robertus is not. He stands tall under the rain, his clothes and hair weighed down by the water.

          Behind him, his shadow, projected by the light from inside the house where Will remains safe.

          In that shadow, a small boy. Minuscule. Barely born, yet he stands on his two legs.

          The boy's eyes are on the black soil. Like new-borns, he can't or won't carry his head.

          He was hoped for, yet he is not expected.

          Many times Robertus has left. Just as many times he has come back alone.

          But now he has a shadow.

          A chilled to the bone, feverish, trembling shadow.

          Will has never seen Hannibal before, but he knows that, if one where to take the soil and the rain, nothing would be left in that boy's world.

          Will bathes Hannibal.

          He is careful.

          He has to be, he knows the boy won't warn him if something is wrong.

          The small body is covered in bruises and cuts, blue and red marbling over his back and arms. The skin is swollen but by blood only. There is no fat left underneath. Only bones.

          Will washes Hannibal with care. He doesn't know where he can touch and where he can't. Hannibal won't say a word either way.

          Raising him will be a guessing game.

          There are screams in the night.

          Frantic and desperate. Rusty too.

          They are ripped from a throat that doesn't speak anymore.

          Will runs to the child room.

          Hannibal is kicking and biting, he is fighting his nightmares and his pillows. His hoarse cries are not those of a child. Neither are his angry tears.

          Will has to slide the belt of his robe in the screaming mouth to prevent Hannibal from biting his tongue off. There's already blood coming out of it. Hannibal is always quick to draw blood.

          Once he wakes up, Will will hold him against his breast. This night, just like every other night. Will will soon know by heart the weight of Hannibal's head against his chest and the warmth of Hannibal's breath on his bare skin.

          Hannibal is the only child he has ever held against his heart.

          Hannibal speaks.

          Hannibal eats.

          He even smiles from time to time.

          He reads and sings and plays.

          Yet Will is not fooled. He knows he is no ordinary child.

          He knows of Hannibal's violence. Of Hannibal's cruelty. He has witnessed them. But he can't find it in him to hate. He still remembers the weight of that small head, even if Hannibal doesn't have nightmares anymore.

          Will doesn't think he will ever be able to forget what it used to feel like to hold Hannibal.

          Hannibal is an adult.

          His head too heavy to be carried. His breath too burning for any bare skin.

          And Will is exhausted from raising him. Hannibal's childhood has taken everything out of him, and now Will doesn't know what is left for him at all.

          He doesn't know what he is supposed to do.

          He has given everything to that new life, and now, that new life is walking hand in hand with Death. Rushing to its end. Or to other’s.

          Hannibal’s childhood has been vampiric. His adulthood will be the harvest of the withered crops.

          Will remembers when he used to bath Hannibal. When he used to guess from the boy's silences which parts of that abused skin would hurt and which wouldn't.

          It hasn't changed. Caring for Hannibal is still very much the same. A guessing game. Except that now, he is a man. And it is Will who feels pain when he touches that skin.

          And it is Will who can't say a word, because there is no word which could still make sense. Will who has been dragged into a world of soil, rain and nothingness. Will again who is the trembling, chilled to the bone shadow.

          Will has never loved someone like he has loved Hannibal, and he knows that love will be the end of him.

          Will came back to him, but this time abruptly and violently. He was slammed back into his own self, his mind swollen and inflamed, so sensitive to the touch that every thought crossing it was leaving behind a trail of burning pain.

          Snape had been cold and unconcerned, easy to keep at bay. But Lady Murasaki was damn relatable. Her love for Hannibal had merged at once with Will's, as if finally finding its perfect echo, and when Will had wanted to crawl away, the crushing sense of tragedy that was darkening Lady Murasaki's love had gripped his back and sank its teeth into his neck.

          Will was about to lose Hannibal and, with him, himself.

          Sensing his lungs squeeze shut and his heart pick up, Will tried to force himself to calm down. He had to remember it wasn't him, it didn't come from him. This burden on his back was borrowed only.

          That didn't make it any easier to carry but holding onto the thought prevented Will from spiralling. He turned around, to warn Hannibal. He couldn't speak, feeling that he was a word away from throwing up, but he punched his elbow to let the franticness on his face and the unshed tears in his eyes tell of the urgency of the situation. He needed to get out.

          Looking at Hannibal was unbearable. The mere sight of him was swelling Will's heart, pushing away his ribs and lungs, making it unable to contract to make the blood flow. Thankfully, a second of eye contact was enough to make Hannibal aware of the situation and force him into action. He hugged Will against him, then leaned against the glass of the window behind them. At first nothing happened, then they slowly began to sink into the solid matter of the window, as if the glass had become a thin layer of wet clay. More of a suggestion than a barrier. Hannibal pushed through it, until Will could sense the window passing through his body, and finally, they were outside, free.

          And falling.

          As he felt his body, pulled down by gravity, plummeting through the air, Will hugged Hannibal back. Closing his eyes, he took his first deep breath since Lady Murasaki, the crushing burden of his back, hastened by its heavier weight, falling on its own, away from Will. Leaving him alone with Hannibal and their inescapable shared fate.

          At least, inescapable in theory. Because, a second away before crashing into the ground and breaking every bone of their body, Hannibal extended his hand and slowed down their fall, until they landed on their two feet. Safely. To Will's disappointment.

          However, such magical saving had not been extended to the burden, and Will could nearly see, in his mind's eyes, the splattered body of this parasite of doom.

          Freed from his sense of imminent tragedy, Will was only left with his devouring love for Hannibal, made raw and desperate by the memory he had of Murasaki's martyrdom.

          At the second he found his balance again, Will pushed himself into Hannibal, crushing his lover's lips with his. Feeling the warmth of that body, the vibrant life emanating from him, ignited Will's needs. He forced Hannibal against the stone wall leading to the window from which they had jumped, and pressed both their bodies together, in a desperate attempt to sooth the pain coming from the original tragedy of being two different people. Biting Hannibal's lips to draw some blood, Will let his tongue leave the frontier of his teeth to venture beyond Hannibal's. It felt righter that way, more at its place in Hannibal's mouth than in its own. However, the merging came to an abrupt end when two firm hands on Will's shoulders pushed him a full inch away from Hannibal.

"What is it about, Will?" Hannibal asked, his mind much more focused and stable than Will's.

"It can wait," Will breathed, trying to close the offensive distance between them.

"No, it cannot," Hannibal insisted.

"So, you're more into your little side curiosity than me?"

"You know well it is untrue. But I need to know what it is about so I can guess if indulging you will end up hurting you."

"It won't."

"Will, what can it possibly be about?"

          Though Will had no other desire than to finally shut this mouth with his, he knew full well that, if he were to proceed, Hannibal would be left alone with his thoughts, and would probably end up guessing that Snape hadn't been the source of such love for him.

          Will sighed and let his head fall on Hannibal's shoulder. At least his lovers' arms remained around him, there was that. Though it horrified Lady Murasaki’s love, it could at least sooth Will’s.

"It's a pact."

"A pact?"

"To protect someone in danger."

"Someone he loves?"

"Someone someone else loves."

          Hannibal remained pensive for a moment, his hands absentmindedly caressing Will's still slightly trembling back.

"It's with Narcissa Malfoy," Will continued. "Something in that magic reminded me of something I saw, that day, on Diagon Alley."

"What kind of pact?" Hannibal asked. "Do you remember anything?"

"They talked about a vow. Uh..."

"Unbreakable vow."

"Yes. What does it mean?"

"It means that if Draco dies, so does Professor Snape."

"Oh..."

"Yes. It is becoming quite the thorny situation..."

          The knife was flying through the air with ease and grace, accompanied by the singing whisper of cut air. The blade was hitting the wooden chopping board repeatedly, adding rhythmic percussion to the concerto.

          As any good art was, the show was however pleasing to more than one sense.

          Hannibal detailed appreciatingly the perfectly even slices of meat falling on top of each other, like a Pisa tower of flesh.

          They were back in the kitchens and Will, exhausted from the accomplished duty, was resting his feverish head on the cold surface of the wood. Hannibal looked at him with the same appreciation as he had for the meat, before putting the knife down and placing the pieces of flesh in the pan. Leaving it to slowly cook he thoroughly cleaned his hand, for a full minute, before drying them and walking back to Will and the pan. While keeping an eye on the latter, he passed his hand in the hair of the former, carefully massaging the scalp and putting some strands away from the wet forehead.

          Hannibal wished there was something he could do to alleviate Will's exhaustion, but, on the other hand, if he were to alleviate it, he wouldn't get to enjoy that breath-taking view. All things considered; Will's discomfort may be serving a very specific point.

          Taking the pieces of meat out of the burning pan, Hannibal placed them on the bed of vegetables that were already waiting and then pushed a plate toward Will before sitting down by his side.

"Eat," he ordered with the politeness of a proposal.

"You're one to say," Will mumbled while straightening up and grabbing a fork.

"I am," Hannibal answered, bringing a small piece of vegetable from his own plate to his mouth.

          For a moment, they ate in silence, both to their own thoughts. At least, Will was to his thoughts. Hannibal was to his contemplation.

          His boyfriend was a rare image of perfection, he was musing. According to his unbiased opinion. With the empowered jaw and short curls of Greek statues, the heavy eyes of medieval martyrs, and the Rimbaldian arrogance in his frowns, it was the whole spectrum of humanities’ beauties that were battling for the glory of Will’s face alone.

          As he was appreciating his observations, two of Hannibal’s trains of thoughts, which had followed parallel rails so far, met opposite switches which sent them in two very different directions. The first one explored the exciting land of comparing the movingly tragic ends of all these classic influences. The second one couldn’t help but point out that it was such a shame that this congruence of aesthetics was lessened by that ugly, ugly uniform Will was currently wearing.

          Maybe here lied the true tragedy.

          Hannibal had been to many schools before. Five out of the eleven across the world. He had a set opinion of most uniforms across the north hemisphere of the world. And Hogwarts' were really unflattering. Hannibal was not one for regrets, but he missed the periwinkle blue and the adjusted cut of his Beauxbatons days. The capelet and ribbons of their formal wear and the cravat boys had to wear underneath. That had been some good taste. Had he known he would never find such distinction again, he would have hesitated a bit more before acting reprehensibly and endangering his French classmates' life.

          Dumstrang's uniform wasn't too bad either. A bit martial but the cape, inspired by the Roman Paludamentum, offered an interesting silhouette and a good company to the motions.

          Hogwarts uniforms, on the other hand... There was nothing left to save. Outdated yet not in a fashionable way, it was of a plain boring black, with robes too large to draw a decent silhouette, and ties of a mind-numbing banality. Nothing could possibly be flattering about it.

          Of course, Hannibal had done his best. An excellent sewer of both skin and fabrics, he had work on his and Will's uniform. He had altered the waist so it would follow more diligently the shape of the body and flatteringly fall on the hips, he had also retouched the shoulders and back so that the upper part looked more like a coat and less like a loose sack. But there was nothing he could do about the colours, the lengths and the general lack of boldness.

          He was eager to get out of this school. He wondered if Will would let him choose his clothes for him, once they would become domestical. He hoped so. Hannibal was thinking something green.

"What you're gonna do about Draco?"

          Hannibal let his train of thought continue to explore what colour would suit his lover best while he focused another one on his answer.

"What would you have me do?"

"I don't know. If he goes after us... Killing him would kill Snape wouldn't it?"

"Most probably. Unless Cissy clarified the circumstances of the danger she wanted protection from."

"I don't think she would have done that."

"Then it is safe to assume that killing Draco would kill Professor Snape."

"You're against it?"

          Hannibal took a long breath, exploring the idea with curiosity.

"Professor Snape is a great mind, and a remarkable potioneer. I have no desire to deprive humanity of him. For the sake of Professor Snape, I will be lenient with Draco. For as long as we can afford it."

"If he steps on the line..."

"Whether or not Draco outlives this year will depend solely on his wisdom. We will have to wait and see."

          Plum purple. That would suit Will splendidly. A bit bold for the young man's sober style, but Hannibal was certain he could coerce his soul into accepting that colour in his life.

"Sorry for your lip," Will said.

          Hannibal smiled, feeling a sharp pain where Will's teeth had broken the skin. He didn't mind. In many ways, he liked it.

"What justified that particular hunger, Will?" he asked. "What in Professor Snape inspired it?"

"Love I guess."

"Professor Snape's?"

          Will remained silent for a second, observing the few pieces of meat still in his plate.

"You know he was in love with Harry's mom?"

          Hannibal, who was about to put a wax bean in his mouth, stopped his motion.

"I beg your pardon?"

"There was a lily in his office. You remember? A bright orange one. The same ones that formed the hair of Lily's presence in Harry's blood. I could be wrong but that would explain Snape's hate for Harry."

          Hannibal thought about it for a moment. He had seen barely hidden pain in Professor Snape, but never would he have suspected it. Yet Will was right. If it was a correct deduction, it could make a lot of sense. Also explaining the Headmaster's trust in the dark teacher.

"That is why you were so... in need?" Hannibal asked. "You were inspired by Professor Snape's love for Harry's mother?"

          Will's eyes didn't leave the bleeding meat on his plate.

"Yeah," he said. "That's why. Some pretty passionate love."

          Hannibal finished his own diner and cleaned his plate with a snap of his fingers.

"How long ago was it?" he wondered. "Fifteen years? That is some commitment, we have to give him that."

"He is pathetic."

"Your hatred for the man prevents you from showing appreciation."

"I mean it. She obviously wasn't interested in him. Just get over it."

          Hannibal observed his lover with fondness. He knew full well that if Will hadn't been interested in him, he would have still forced his way into every layer of the Empath's life. Or he would have killed him.

          More probably the former, though, as he was a good boyfriend.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 7

Insidious Evils

          Ron was pacing in front of the door leading to the West Wing of the seventh floor.

          He was exhausted by an endless day of learning, his legs were sore from having been stood on during the Herbology class, and he had only one wish, to let himself fall into the comfiest armchair of the Gryffindor Common Room and, if possible, never move again.

          But, on the other hand, his mind was racing with thoughts and expectations, keeping him too nervous for him to stay still. And he couldn't go to the Common Room anyway as it was here that they were supposed to meet Will.

"He is late," Hermione noticed.

          She didn't seem angry. And she didn't add how much homework she had to do or how time was precious this year. She simply pointed out a fact without any strong feeling about it. She seemed to have for Will a patience she certainly didn't have for Ron or Harry.

          Though, now that he was thinking about it, Ron didn't really remember her saying much about school since the summer vacation and that had continued after the start of the term. Maybe she had finally matured and had understood that not everything was about grades. It was a good thing, he thought. About time.

"I can't figure out why he couldn't just tell us during Charm," Ron complained. "It would all have been over by now."

"Maybe they really found something huge," Harry said with hope. "Something that couldn't be said during class."

"I don't know what they found out, but I really hope it will be worth all the wait."

"I think it will be."

          That sentence had been pronounced by a voice behind them and the three friends turned around. Will was walking toward them, dragging behind him his heavy suitcase, Orphy's empty cage under his left arm, Orphy himself on his shoulder. Hermione and Harry stood up from the floor where they had sat and joined Ron at the entrance of the West Wing.

"Where are you going with that?" Hermione asked. "You're... You're leaving?"

"I'm moving out," he said, finally reaching the three other Gryffindors.

"To go where?"

"I've been upgraded. I have my own room now."

"Why?" Ron asked with suspicion. "You've done something?"

"It was offered to me. The only thing I've done is to accept it."

"Give me the cage," Hermione said, extending her arms to help Will.

"Thanks."

          Ron took Orphy from Will's shoulder. He was familiar with the bird since he had taken care of him while Will had been missing last year, and Orphy accepted to be carried without too much fuss. Once Will had nothing left to drag behind him but the suitcase, he resumed his way, the three other students following him closely.

"We're going to your new room?" Harry asked.

"Yes."

"You didn't ask us to wait for you here so that we can help you to move in, right?" Ron said.

"No, I asked you to meet me here because I had to come here. I want to move tonight, and if I had told you I can't tell you before tomorrow, I think you'd have lost your shits."

"Fair point," Harry nodded. "We waited for you yesterday. Late into the night. Didn't see you come back."

"I know. So, I'll tell you today."

          They didn't walk far. Will's new room was in a remote corner of the maze of corridors that was the West Wing of the Seventh Floor, not so far away from the Room of Requirement. Unlike the Common Rooms, it wasn't guarded by a password or a riddle. Only a simple lock that Will opened with a key.

"Anyone knowing Alohomora could walk in while you're away," Hermione pointed out with a frown.

“Or worse…” Ron whispered gloomily, “while you’re asleep…”

"I'll ask Hannibal to do something about that," he said, apparently not worried.

          The room, though single indeed, was rather small on the other side. It was simply a bed, a desk, a cupboard, and a large window offering a view on the lake and the boathouse. The door near the desk had to lead to a bathroom of sorts, Ron guessed. Ultimately, it wasn't far from what Ron had at home, apart from the lack of mess everywhere and of Chudley Cannons’ posters on the walls.

          While they were putting Will's stuff down, a crackling noise caught their attention. Turning around, Ron noticed that it was coming from the cupboard. The piece of furniture was softly moving on its legs, sometimes trembling in a harsh jolt that was making the hinge squeal and the lock creak. As if someone inside was desperately trying to get out.

          Harry drew his wand at once, followed shortly by Hermione.

"Careful," he said, "there's a Boggart in there."

"That's fine," Will shrugged, not even glancing at the cupboard. "Let it be, I'll deal with it later."

"You know how to fight Boggarts?" Ron double checked.

"Yeah. Ignore it for now."

          Ron wasn't too pleased with the idea of sitting down near a Boggart, but it was Will's room now, and it felt weird to do anything without his authorization. He therefore let himself fall on the armchair, which was just as comfortable as the ones in the Common Room he had been longing for and he sighed in relief. Hermione and Harry went to sit on the bed and Will walked to the cupboard before leaning against it, efficiently blocking it against the wall and stopping at once the sounds. All gathered, they could finally ask their question:

"Why were you offered a room?" Hermione wondered.

          It was not what Ron wanted an answer to, but he had not been fast enough to ask first.

"Because of what I am. They think isolation can be good from time to time. I agree. I didn't accept last year for some reasons that don't hold anymore. And let's face it, Hermione, if you could have a single room, whether or not you need it, you'd take it, wouldn't you?"

"I guess..."

"What about Snape?" Harry asked impatiently and Ron nodded along. "What did you discover last night?"

          Will rubbed his forehead, as if to put his thoughts in order and then took a long breath.

"So... Last night."

          All attentions were on him, unwavering.

"We went to the staffroom," he explained, "cause Hannibal had a gut feeling about some weird stuff with Snape. As we told you."

"What weird stuff exactly?" Ron asked.

          He didn't have Potions anymore – thanks Merlin – but the little he had seen of the gloomy teacher had been nothing out of the ordinary.

"We didn't know. That's why we investigated. Anyway. You know the thing I've done with Harry's magic in the Ministry?"

"Uh, no," Ron answered truthfully.

          Will sighed.

"That's gonna be harder to explain than I thought."

"Maybe it's about time you tell us a bit more about... everything?" Harry said.

"About what, exactly?" Will asked, frowning. "What am I not telling you about?"

"You wanna list?"

"Well, yes please."

          Harry, who was as eager for information than Ron, didn't waste that opportunity to learn more.

"How you did what you did in the Ministry, for starters. How about that?"

"You never asked me," Will pointed out.

          That remark rang familiar in Ron's ears. He couldn't help but remember when Will's boyfriend had said something along that line, a couple of months ago. When Harry, exasperated, had asked Hannibal why he hadn't helped, and that Hannibal had answered he simply hadn't been asked.

          In Ron's opinion, it was always dodgy to not say everything, even if not expressly asked.

"The hell, I never asked you," Harry exclaimed. "Last year, in Dumbledore's office!"

"No, that's not true," Will defended himself. "You asked why I didn't tell you what I know, not how I knew it in the first place."

"So," Ron tried, unsure of what they were heading for, "what you're saying is that... you're really gonna answer our questions?"

          It had now been months. Three months of completely incomprehension and guessing games, and Ron didn't hope for a second that someone would miraculously come with all the answers they had been waiting for and simply give them away for free.

"Listen," Will said with a sigh, "most of your questions have answers linked to my Empathy. It's not a topic I like to talk at length about. It's intimate, and it's private. It's not some grand scheme to keep you in the dark. It's just that I don't like to talk about what's kicking in my head to anyone."

"So, you're not gonna tell us, that's what you mean..."

          Will's hand came back to his face to rub his eyes this time, as if trying to chase away a looming exhaustion.

"I actually don't have much of a choice. Or else things gonna get real complicated, real soon."

"Why?" Ron asked, worried that something big was about to happen.

"Our appointment with Dumbledore," Will said, "Harry, Hannibal and I. I don't know what it's gonna be about, but something tells me that, if you don't have the basic context, you'll not understand the first shit."

          Ron looked at Harry, then at Will. He was aware that, even if he didn't know a lot, Harry still knew more than him or Hermione. And he was weirdly relieved to be able to simply be here right now, and not be left out once again.

"So," Will resumed. "What happened in the Ministry. With Hannibal. The whole... dead-undead thing. It all comes down to Empathy."

"That's what allows you to read thoughts," Ron said.

"Not thoughts. More like... emotions and... identities I guess. Motivations, worries, stuff like that. Less about thoughts, more about opinions, if that makes sense."

"How does that give you magical powers?" Harry asked. "Hannibal said to me the storm in the Department of Mystery wasn't a spell. Just your Empathy."

"So, that, I know it from Hannibal. The science behind is complex, and abstract, and I won't dwell into any details. But, basically, emotions and magic are intertwined. Like, uh... lights and eyes if you want. They are not the same, but they are intrinsically linked to each other. Hannibal's talk about conversion of energy, but that's not how it feels. It feels more like sparkles starting an engine. Or fueling it. Like a feeling starting a thought. Or heating it. Same but switch thoughts with magic. Not spells but pure magic. Like the energy feeding the spells and... Well... Now that I'm saying it aloud, I guess Hannibal's transformation of energies makes sense. He is always better at explaining things anyway... Does that make sense?"

"No," Harry said, voicing Ron's thought too, "but go on nonetheless."

"Ok. So, very basically, I'm a good translator. I can translate emotions into magic and magic into emotions. Hannibal says everyone can do it, in a small measure. You know, like the Crucio spell that only works if the caster's very pissed. But the thing is that I can do it on a larger scale, and also I can do it consciously. Hannibal also talked about something with energy waste but I won't get into it. That's what you saw at the Department of Mysteries. I took my anger and..."

          He snapped his finger.

"... Magic."

"Just like that?" Hermione asked.

"Very basically. But yeah... That's not hard. I mean... It's hard. Some parts of it are painfully hard. But not the act itself. It's... forget it. Anyway. Snape."

"No, wait," Ron cut him. "Hannibal. "The dead-undead thing."

"Yes," Will nodded to himself. "That too. Well... It has to do with Harry too, so..."

          He stopped in the middle of his disjointed sentence, apparently waiting for Harry's authorization to continue, and it was finally Harry himself who picked up.

"Apparently... at least according to Dumbledore... my mother didn't just die the day they were attacked by Voldemort."

          Ron didn't ask any questions and let Harry tell the story at his own pace.

"What happened is that she sacrificed herself before she died. So that I could live. And that created a... spell of sorts? Like blood magic. Which protected me from Voldemort. That's why I didn't die that day. He couldn't kill me, because my mother was protecting me. But the protection didn't stop there. It continued as I grew up. It needs my mother's blood to be fed, that's why I'm going to the Dursleys' every summer. It's what's protecting me."

"Then... with your aunt gone," Hermione whispered.

"The year before we met," Will added, "Voldemort took Harry's blood for his resurrection. And Harry's blood contains enough of Lily to work for the protection. Without knowing, Voldemort turned himself into another protection for Harry. Each time they will be close to each other, Lily's spell will be fuelled again and Harry will be protected against Voldemort."

"So... That means you can't lose?"

"That means Voldemort can't kill me. But his henchmen can."

"That's still good news," Hermione said. "But what does it have to do with Hannibal? You didn't... You didn't sacrifice yourself like Harry's mother did for him, right?"

"No, I did not. But, earlier this year, I had been able to feel that protection in Harry's blood. And guess what it was about. At the Ministry, when I realized Hannibal wasn't winning, I knew I couldn't just let him die. So, I remembered that protection that Harry was carrying. And I knew I needed to extend it to Hannibal. And... argh, how to explain... I kinda... tricked the magic into believing another truth. I told you about lights and eyes. Well, it's like manipulating lights so that eyes can see other stuff. Emotions are how magic sees the world. So, I gave it new emotions and I convinced the spell that there was not one, but two babies that night and that Lily sacrificed herself for the both of them."

          It sounded bad to Ron. Tricking. Manipulating. Especially something so closely linked to Harry's mother.

"That's the only reason why Hannibal didn't die," Will finished. "Because Harry's mother protected him from Voldemort."

"I'm glad it did," Harry said. "We've already lost Luna. If Hannibal... I couldn't have."

"But then, can't you extend the spell to everyone?" Ron asked. "So that no one can die from Voldemort."

"It's not that easy," Will explained. "I can trick magic with emotions, but I need to have the emotions in the first place. The amount of love it takes to trick that spell. You have no idea. I have to match the love Harry's mother had for Harry. It's not something you can just guess or imagine. I could only do that for someone I love just as much or more. I couldn't do it for a very good friend. Hell, I don't think I could even do it for my own father, let alone every member of the Order."

          But he had loved Hannibal enough to do it. Ron couldn't help but wonder if one day he would be loved by anyone as much as Will seemed to love Hannibal. That sounded like the kind of stories only found and Beedle the Bard’s tales.

"Where is he, by the way?" he asked, chasing his thought away. "Hannibal."

"Working at the Hospital Wing. Doesn’t matter. Now, about Snape."

"Yes, please!" Harry exclaimed.

          Ron wished they wouldn't move on that quickly. It was a lot to take in and he couldn't wrap his head around the fact that weird, awkward Will, who couldn't even hold a gaze, was basically telling them that he was able to perform a whole new kind of magic that could very well be a key weapon against Voldemort.

          Ron couldn't think of more questions right now, but still, he wouldn’t have minded a few seconds to get over it. But Hermione and Harry were already on to the next subject.

"I, uh... The thing that happened that allowed me to know about Harry's mother, it happened again with Snape. And I was able to guess the weird magical thing Hannibal had picked up on."

"What was it, then?" Harry asked. "Something to do with Voldemort?"

"An Unbreakable Vow," Will answered. "That's what it is."

"What's... What's that?"

"An Unbreakable Vow," Ron explained, finally hearing something he knew, "is a vow that can't be broken."

"No shit."

"No, I mean, if you break it, you die."

"Oh..."

"He made one of them," Will resumed. "With Narcissa Malfoy. I sensed her despair all over him. He promised he would protect her son and help him."

"So, we have the proof!" Harry exclaimed. "Snape really is on Voldemort's side!"

"Maybe Dumbledore asked him to do that," Hermione said.

"No way," Harry shook his head. "You really think he would ask a member of the Order to die for a Death Eater?"

"We still don't know if he is a Death Eater," Ron pointed out.

"Narcissa Malfoy asked Snape to 'help him'," Harry insisted. "I don't think she was asking for his homework. He is working for Voldemort. He has something to do, and Snape's gonna help him, because Snape's on Voldemort's side too."

"I don't know..." Ron tempered. "Still feels weird that Dumbledore could be fooled so badly."

"Well, he doesn't know what we know now, does he? Will, did you tell him?"

"Did I tell him I sneaked into the staffroom to stalk one of his teachers? Surprisingly no. You guys are the only ones I told. And Hannibal, of course."

"Then, he can't know that."

"I'm sure Dumbledore is able to do the same thing."

"No, he isn't," Will clarified.

"Surely he can," Ron said. "It's Dumbledore."

"It has nothing to do with knowledge or experience. It's a physical structure of the brain. Dumbledore can't do what I do."

          The mere idea that Will could do something even Dumbledore couldn't seemed ridiculous to Ron. Not that he thought that Will would lie about it. But surely he was overstating it. It was Dumbledore they were talking about. One of the greatest wizards of History. Will was just a student. Like Ron. He could understand that some boys his age were really advanced compared to him – one had to when they were friends with Hermione and Hannibal – but not Will too. Will was one of them, wasn’t he?

"I really don't regret lending you my Cloak," Harry said. "We must tell Dumbledore when we'll see him on Saturday."

"Uhh..." Will nuanced.

"I mean... we're gonna change the story a bit. It didn't happen in the staffroom."

"If I could be left out of it completely..."

"Fine. I overheard it one evening. Snape and Malfoy were talking and that's how I heard about Unbreakable Vows."

"Thanks."

          Harry stood up with a long sigh.

"I hope he'll listen. I guess we won't know before Saturday. I have to go now, but thanks for telling us, Will. And thank Hannibal too, please. He really had some hell of an instinct on this one."

"Will do."

"Where do you have to go?" Ron asked.

"To my appointment with McGonagall."

"You have an appointment with McGonagall?"

"You have one too, you know."

"What? Now? Why for?"

"You really never look at the board, Ron," Hermione frowned, as she was apparently aware of what Harry was talking about.

"The board sucks," was Will's enlightened opinion about it, and Ron wholeheartedly agreed.

"For the career thing," Harry told him. "We have to go see McGonagall if we have not achieved the OWL we needed, so we can rethink the whole thing. Your appointment is tomorrow, I think."

"Awesome. Gotta go find her so she can tell me what a failure I am. Just what I needed."

"You did great at the exams," Hermione kindly said. "You had a lot of good grades, and she knows that."

"Yeah, whatever. Let's go anyway. We also have the Herbology essay for tomorrow."

          He stood up too, ready to follow Harry out of the room, but Will interrupted them when Hermione joined them.

"Actually, Hermione, would you mind helping me a bit?" he asked. "With some of my stuff. Won't take long."

"Uh... Yes, of course."

"Thanks."

          Ron frowned, wondering why Hermione's help was needed to put two shirts out of a suitcase, but before he could ask anything, Harry was gripping him by the elbow and dragging him out of the room.

"Eh? What's that about?" he asked once outside.

"Leave them alone."

"But I'm not even going to the appointment with you."

"You said you had Herbology."

"We have Herbology."

"Then get started so we don't have to stay up until three am."

          Ron found it to be a bit much to ask. He loved Harry and would literally enter a war for him, but write an Herbology essay on his own? His commitment had limits. And he was sure Harry wouldn't do it for him either.

"What about them two?" he asked as they were exiting the West Wing.

"What about them?"

"Why did he ask Hermione to stay behind?"

"He said it. To help him unpack."

"I could have helped him too. Why ask Hermione?"

"Maybe he saw the state of your own room this summer and thought better of it. Can’t blame him."

"No, but seriously? What's up with them?"

"I don't know, Ron! Stop asking me!"

          Ron could tell Harry was lying to him. He knew what was up or else he wouldn't have dragged Ron out of the room, and he wouldn't try his best right now to avoid his friend's eyes. Ron thought that the anger he could feel crawling at the back of his mind was righteous. Once again, he was left out. Once again, no one thought it was important to let him know anything. And Ron was sick of that.

          That was why, when they arrived in front of the Common Room and Harry disappeared in the stairs for his appointment with McGonagall, Ron did not walk to the dormitory to fetch his Herbology book.

          Instead, he turned around and went back to Will's room. There was no reason why he should always be the last one among his friends to learn anything, and only if the other two were kind enough to tell him. The same way Will and Hannibal had dug on their own for that Snape situation, he could do that too.

          He struggled a bit to find the room again, the West Wing being but a succession of intersections, all similar, but he finally spotted the door. Silently he walked to it and applied his ear against the panel.

          He didn't know what he expected. Hannibal and Will being perfect for each other, he didn't go to the obvious conclusion but jumped right to 'plotting'. He knew his friends and therefore knew they wouldn't plot against him. But maybe it was something linked to Voldemort. Something they thought he was too stupid to understand. If that was the case, he had to prove them all wrong.

          Yet he couldn't hear anything but silence. He waited nearly a full minute and was about to straighten up when, finally, Will's voice echoed from inside.

"You can deny it. Or even refuse to say anything. But that won't change what I think of it, Hermione."

"What do you think of it?"

          Hermione's voice was different from the one Ron knew her to have. It was harsher and bitter. Colder also.

"I think keeping it for yourself won't serve any purpose. I think it'll make it suffocating."

"You're one to talk. You never say anything."

"It's because of that that I know that pattern so well, Hermione. It used to be my thing and I know what it feels like. Now, I have Hannibal. There's very little I keep to myself anymore, and nothing of that importance."

"It's not important."

"You have lost interest in everything that mattered to you before. I'd say it's pretty important."

          There was a moment of silence after that, and Ron waited, careful to not produce a single sound that would betray his presence.

          What the hell were they on about?

"I have nightmares," Hermione whispered.

          She had admitted it so quietly that Ron barely heard her.

"About that fight with that Death Eater?"

"And about the ones to come."

"What happens in these nightmares?"

"The same thing. Over and over. I fight. And I win."

"That doesn't sound like a nightmare..."

"The nightmare is when I wake up. When I realize I don't know how to fight like I did in my dream."

          The conversation made little sense to Ron, even now that he was slowly understanding the topic. What he could pick up on, however, was the distress in Hermione's voice.

"I'm tired and exhausted. But not from the lack of sleep. I'm tired of myself. Of being useless and defenceless. Of being clueless. Of being able to do nothing more than wait and hope for the best. I'm not... I'm not supposed to be like that."

          Ron couldn't hear Will anymore. Most certainly, he had gone silent to let Hermione talk.

"They all say I am one of the most powerful witches of my generation. They've been saying it since I'm eleven. But, faced with that Death Eater... I couldn't do anything. I didn't know how to do anything. Because I was never taught. And I can't take the standstill anymore. I can't. I just want to learn how to... how to..."

          There was a tear in her voice. A suffocated sob that shone in contrast when put side by side with Will's flat tone.

"Say it..." he barely breathed.

          Footsteps echoed in the room, someone had walked closer to someone else.

“Hermione,” Will whispered, “say it.”

"I want to learn how to hurt them."

"Like they hurt you. And Luna."

"It's not about vengeance. It's about survival. I can't stand the threat of death anymore. It's crushing me and I can't breathe!"

          Ron couldn't help a dreadful sense of guilt from settling somewhere in his guts. Surprisingly enough, it wasn't linked to the fact that he was eavesdropping on two of his best friends.

          How could he have been so blind and missed that completely? He had been the first to enjoy Hermione's newfound disinterest for school. To compare it to personal growth. But Will had spotted it at once. That huge pain Ron and Harry had missed. He had barely scratched the surface and had brought Hermione to confide in him. He had known Hermione for barely a year. Ron had been her best friend since they were eleven. They had been through several hells together. And he had missed it completely.

"You're not clueless, Hermione. And you're not defenceless. We were all underprepared but..."

"You didn't seem underprepared."

"I have been, at some point. I also had my own fight with damning consequences, after which I tried to learn."

"Hannibal taught you?"

"In some ways. He too had had his fight and his defeat. He too grew stronger after it."

"What doesn't kill us..."

"No. Some stuffs don't kill us but are particularly good at making us weaker. Hannibal once told me something about it. Something that didn't make sense before I got to live it all."

          There was a short moment of silence, as if Will was trying to remember the exact words.

"We were talking about how madness in small doses can be beneficial. And about it, he said that an overdose of it is not so bad either. He said that, if one survives the overdose, it can boost one's immune system, and better equip them for the next existential battles. I thought it was phatic verbosity until it began to make sense to me.

"’Phatic verbosity?’" Hermione repeated with a laugh that couldn't quite make anyone forget the obvious tightness of her throat. "Wow."

"I know. I learned those words since I'm with Hannibal. Very useful."

          Both laughed softly to a joke Ron had not understood but it was weak and didn't ring for long.

"You said it didn't make sense for you at first, what he said," Hermione continued. "I think it does for me."

"I think so too."

"And I hope he was right."

"He has been right in my case. And before that, in his own. I'm sorry you had to go through that, Hermione. I really am. But... I won't say you're gonna grow from it. But you're gonna change. And maybe it's not all bad."

"Maybe. I guess we will have to see."

          There was a sniffing sound, maybe also someone wiping tears away, and Ron knew it was the end of the conversation. Without second thought, he straightened up and began to walk away as fast yet as silently as possible. As he was rushing to the Common Room, his brain was weighed down by thoughts, questions and worries. Playing the conversation over and over in his mind, it was hard for Ron not to feel like the sole culprit of the entire situation.

          He had been so blind and dismissive. For how long had Hermione struggled with all that? For how long had she stood between him and Harry without any of them noticing anything? Maybe they were right to keep him out of everything. Maybe he was truly dumb and useless. Unable to do anything to help his friends.

          He wasn't done fustigating himself when he arrived at the Common Room and fell in one of the armchairs by the window, his thoughts still buzzing with what he had just heard.

          He didn't agree with Will. He didn't think anything good could come from that distress, nor that strength could be found in what obviously was fear and pain. Hermione needed to find back what she thought she had lost. Not grieve it and call it a day. She needed her friends and her routine, not to learn how to match Death Eaters. Ron wasn't naive. He knew Hermione couldn't be kept safe and protected. Not with what was about to come. None of them could. But that didn't mean they couldn't aim for it. For peace and stability at last.

          Hermione arrived in the Common Room, ten minutes later, and she stopped when she noticed Ron, sitting alone in one of the remote corners.

"Something's wrong?" she asked.

"Uh... No. Just waiting for you."

"What for?"

"I was wondering if... uh... you could tell me a bit more about what McGonagall told us about today."

"You mean about human transfiguration?"

"Yeah. I didn't quite get that."

          Ron couldn't care less about what McGonagall had said. But Hermione cared. Or at least she used to. And Ron was desperate for her to remember that.

"Uh... Sure. You want us to work on our essay together?"

          It wasn't due before next week, but Ron nodded, nonetheless.

"I'd love that. Thanks Hermione."

"You're welcome..."

"Can't believe it's only Saturday. I feel I've been here for a whole ass year already."

          Pansy's voice barely reached Draco.

          They were in the Library, sharing a table with Crabbe and Goyle, their Charms textbooks opened in front of them.

          They had been there for almost an hour and Draco had yet to write a single word on his scroll. There were few things that were further from his mind these past few days than homework.

"Yeah..." Goyle cleverly commented.

"That's true," Crabbe wisely nodded.

"Good news is, you owe me ten sickles, the both of you."

"Why that?" Goyle frowned.

"Cause you said the next to run away would be a Gryffindor. Vincent said a Hufflepuff and I said a Ravenclaw. Guess what? I saw Edgewick's parents near Flitwick's office this morning. There to get their son home. Ravenclaw for the run."

          Goyle, Crabbe and Parkinson had had that little game going between them since the first day of the terms, making prognostic on the next House which would have one of its students being pulled out from Hogwarts.

          Pansy was winning by far. But only because she was cheating. She had bet on Gryffindor. Crabbe was the one who had said Ravenclaw. But since neither him nor Goyle had any brain power, they always managed to forget, letting Pansy trick them every single time.

          Draco didn't say anything. He really couldn't care less.

"Fine, fine," Goyle mumbled while taking the money from his bag.

"I'll give it when we'll be at the dorms," Crabbe said.

"I won't forget."

          Pansy took Goyle's money and slipped it into her own pocket.

"That's funny though. Watching them all run away and hide in fear. Can't wait for Hogwarts to be cleaned out."

"That's not funny when it's nice folks," Crabbe said. "It's sad Nott left. He was nice."

"Nott wasn't a friend!" Pansy exclaimed. "He was an ass."

          She didn't believe that. She had been his best friend for a couple of years. But now, she dated Draco, and since Nott's hatred for the Malfoy family was a well-known matter, she had publicly chosen her side. Not that Draco was in any way grateful for that. Pansy's opinion on Nott had very little impact on his everyday life. Nott himself had very little impact on anything at all.

"Why did he leave, though?" Crabbe asked. "He is a pure-blood. And one of us. He has nothing to fear."

"He didn't leave," Pansy said. "He just never came back."

"But why?"

          Pansy didn't answer. She knew why, but she wouldn't say it. She didn't want to encourage Draco any further, but it was too late. Draco took it upon himself to answer, even though he knew he wouldn't be believed.

"Nott didn't come back because he thinks our families killed his father, when it's Graham who did it."

          Even though they had a terrible memory, Crabbe and Goyle knew what it was about. Draco had repeated it over and over again to them. And would continue to do so until they'd become clever enough to see the truth he intended to hammer into those empty skulls of theirs.

"Draco," Pansy tried, and Draco already hated her soft, gentle voice so much he simply wanted her to choke on her own words. "I know you hate him. Hell, I hate that muddy fag too. But Graham would never be able to hurt a true Death Eater. The guy's barely able to hold a wand."

"And I told you he did it nonetheless. My father told me so."

"He told you he is responsible for what happened to your house but..."

          Already past the point of annoyance, Draco cut her off harshly.

"And how do you think he did it? By knocking off a candle? I don't know what it is, if it's magic or some muggle trick, but he blew up the whole place. Whatever it is, it's powerful. And Nott's father disappeared the exact same night. He was inside the house, I tell you! I don't know why, but Graham and Nott were inside my house that night and Graham blew it up."

"Fine," Pansy said, but Draco could tell she wasn't believing a word of it. "Maybe that's what happened."

          She was about to change the topic of conversation, but Goyle beat her to it:

"I saw him, by the way."

"Who?"

"Graham. He was with Lecter and Potter."

"Yerk," Pansy exclaimed with a disgusted expression. "D'you think they're trying to have Potty for a three-way? I'm sure he'd be into that, that twisted Grindylow."

"Where did you see them?" Draco asked Goyle.

"They were walking toward Dumbledore's office."

          Draco's eyes fell on the small red book that could be seen in his bag that he had dropped on the table. He always had it on him, now. To no avail, as there was nothing in it. The boring and pompous history of a pure-blood family. Most of the events, places and titles were in a language that Draco couldn't read, the book having been translated without much care, and it stopped before Hannibal anyway. With Andrius Lecter and Simonetta Sforza. No mention of that sister his mother had talked about either. It was as if that part of history was made to be forgotten and none had bothered to update it or correct it.

"What you're looking at?" Pansy asked, taking the book from Draco's bag.

"Give it back," he said, moodily.

"Lekterių šeima:” she butchered – at least Draco believed as he didn’t speak that language either, “A Lithuanian History of War and Wisdom. What's that about?"

          Draco snatched the book back and shoved it in his bag.

"Nothing that you'd care about, since you don't even believe me about Graham."

"I believe you, Draco!" she argued. "It's just that... that... Fine, I'm listening. Tell me what it's about."

          Draco hesitated. He didn't know how any of them could help him anyway. But it had something to do with families. And maybe Pansy's could be more loquacious than Draco's.

"There's something about Lecter," he finally said.

"With Graham?"

"No. With my mother. They know each other, and I don't know why."

"You asked your mother?"

"Yes. She said that we went to the Lecter house when I was four."

"Maybe Lecter remembers that."

"No, that's not it. First, Lecter mentioned last year that he had seen my mother recently. He even called her by her nickname only her family uses. Then, when I asked, Mother seemed very afraid of him. As if he had threatened her in any way."

"You said that you think Graham and Nott were in your house the night it blew up. What if Lecter and your mother were there too?"

"Maybe... But why would she fear him? She barely fears the Dark Lord, what about Lecter is different? At first, I wanted to find some dirt on his family to make him pay for mentioning mine. But the more I dig, the more I wonder if there isn't something else. Something linked to families. Maybe something she's seen, when she met them when we were four. Or maybe something he told her the last time they saw each other..."

"And you didn't find anything in this book?"

"No. Nothing. It stops at his parents. He isn't even mentioned."

          Pansy opened the book at its end and looked at some small characters at the bottom of the last page.

"Yeah, last reissue in 1979. Ten years before the coup."

"The coup?" Draco repeated. "What coup?"

"You don't remember our lesson on the Merpeople, last year, in History of Magic?"

          To say that Pansy was a History freak was an understatement. There was nothing that fascinated her more than roots and origins. And for once, Draco was willing to listen to her.

"I don't. What about it?"

"In 1989, there was a coup in Lithuania. Their Wizard-King was assassinated in broad daylight by the heir of another family, removed from the throne something like six centuries ago. You should read about that event. It's so gruesome, I swear. It's awesome."

"And? What does it have to do with the book?"

"Well. I don't know. But I know that the new Wizard-King has forbidden any motion of anything related to any family of the Court of the former Wizard-King. If Lecter's truly a pure-blood, and someone important in his country before 1989 so much so that a book is written on his lineage, then it is possible that he was part of the Court. And if so, you won't find anything interesting today. Not anything legal anyway. That's already a miracle you found this."

"There's nothing in this book."

"Writing down the name is already a lot, in that country."

          Draco's mind repeated the words in his head. That would explain what this partial book had found its way to the Restricted Section. And also why there was nothing on Hannibal at all. As if the guy had come from nowhere.

          But now, Draco had a trail. He just had to follow it. With dedication. Which he certainly didn't lack.

          That would make up for his lack of progress with that damn Vanishing Cabinet.

          Hannibal always had the weirdest, most offbeat thoughts about most matters, Harry thought. It had been strange at first, to never know what would come out of his mouth next and always finding it was something that could have never been foreseen. But now, Harry had grown used to it, and had ended up enjoying it. It was a great way to take his mind off his worries and, if one was daring enough to follow Hannibal in his reflections, it could sometimes culminate in a wonderfully absurd conversion.

          That was why, as Harry, Will and Hannibal were walking toward Dumbledore's office, and Harry was wondering what kind of answer he would finally get and how it would influence his world and the fatal war to come, he nearly didn't blink at Hannibal's peculiar question.

"Why Acid Pops?"

          It was the password to his office that Dumbledore had given to Harry in the note telling him about tonight.

"I don't know," Harry shrugged. "Guess he likes them."

"Do you know the pH level of Acid Pops, Harry?"

"I don't know what a pH level is so... No?"

"Acid Pops burn."

"Ron told me once he had a hole in his tongue after eating one."

"Yes, they melt the flesh. Even if they are made to inflict wounds that are easily healed, no one ‘likes’ them."

"What the point, then?"

          It was Will who had asked the question.

"What's the point of food that burns your tongue?"

"I noticed," Harry shared, "ever since Hagrid fetched me at the Dursleys, that not everything in this world have a point."

"I do, however," Hannibal redirected the conversation. "Have a point. Professor Dumbledore. And Acid Pops."

"He likes sweets," Harry said. "Always have them, ‘s always eating them."

"That is interesting."

"How is it interesting?"

"Childhood," Will answered for Hannibal.

"You get it," Hannibal nodded.

"I don't," Harry frowned.

"Hannibal's psychoanalyzing Dumbledore. Finding evidence of daddy issues in how he choose his passwords or whatever. Don’t listen to him, Harry. It's bordering conspiracy theory territory."

"I'm interested!" Harry exclaimed, turning toward Hannibal.

"Don't you find it strange," Hannibal explained, encouraged by Harry's attention, "that Professor Dumbledore displays such a revendicated love for something linked to childhood and innocence? Professor Dumbledore, I found, tends to multiply small acts and words that enforce an image of light-hearted senility. If you ask people who don't know him quite that well what they think of him, most would tell you that he is not what you picture from his legend. I believe that someone like Professor Dumbledore is fully aware of what people think of him. Maybe he simply doesn't care..."

"You're saying it like you're not convinced," Harry said, knowing a bit better how to understand Hannibal's tones of voice.

"It is also possible that this behaviour is very conscious. As a means of defence and distraction. By creating this image associated with childhood and light-heartedness, few are those who suspect his true potential of power..."

"Yeah, maybe," Harry shrugged. "Or maybe he just likes sweets."

"Bet you didn't think of that one, Hannibal," Will said, mockingly.

"Will, if you didn't have such a lovely tongue, I'd put an Acid Pop in that sarcastic mouth of yours and then collect your opinion on whether or not people can enjoy the taste."

"It's really that bad?" Harry asked.

          Before Hannibal could answer with more than an offended face, they arrived by the Gargoyle guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office.

"Acid Pops," Will said, and the Gargoyle moved aside to let them access the set of stairs that quickly began to roll up around itself and move them up through the Headmaster's tower.

          The thought of their former conversation deserted Harry's mind completely as he knocked on the door of Dumbledore's office.

"Come in," a muffled voice said from the other room.

          Harry opened the door and held it for Hannibal and Will before entering behind them and closing it.

          Dumbledore's office was exactly like he remembered, with the Headmasters and Headmistresses sleeping in their frame, the strange small instruments buzzing and beeping softly of the tables, the mythic Sorting Hat sitting on one of the shelves, and Fawkes dozing off on his perch. The last time he had been there, he had noticed none of these familiar elements of decors but now, he found that he had a certain fondness for them. Despite everything, they still whispered safety and wonders to him.

          Dumbledore was sitting at his desk. There was no book nor letters in front of him, and he seemed to have been lost in his thoughts up until the moment Harry had knocked.

"Please, sit down," he said with a warm smile, his blue eyes sparkling behind his half-moon spectacles. "We have a lot to discuss."

          Harry certainly hoped so.

          With a large gesture of his wand, Dumbledore created two armchairs framing both sides of the one that was already in front of his desk. The motion attracted Harry's eyes which fell on the black burned hand. He had been able to notice it during Dumbledore's speech in the Great Hall but had thought it would have been healed by Pomfrey in a day or two.

          That moving dark danger, contained to Dumbledore's hand, was nonetheless a threatening presence in that office of safety and wonders.

"Sir... Your hand."

"It's a very long story, Harry. And we already have a lot to discuss. Please, sit down."

          Hannibal and Will had already stepped forward to join the armchairs. If Will was detailing the hand with a frown similar to Harry's, Hannibal didn't seem to look twice at it. Maybe, with his job at the Hospital Wing, he had seen something similar before. In any case, Harry told himself that he should ask Hannibal about it once they were done with their business here. Somehow, he could tell that his friend would be willing to say more than the Headmaster.

          Putting that in a corner of his mind, he stepped forward too and sat in-between Will and Hannibal.

"How was your first week of class? Fulfilling, I hope."

          Will shrugged, Hannibal remained silent, but Harry nodded.

"It was fine sir."

"I am glad to hear that. Professor McGonagall told me you couldn't take all the NEWT classes you hoped for?"

"I failed Potions."

          It was a strange thing to talk about grades and exams with Dumbledore. Though he was the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Harry didn't remember one time where they had talked about school related matters.

"An E is no failure Harry. And it does not close any door for you. I hope you will keep on working and studying to achieve your dream career."

          Harry nodded but didn't elaborate. It was a far closer future he was interested in, right now, and his graduation was not on his mind.

"I'm guessing you have wondered what I will need you for, exactly. Will and Hannibal have some knowledge of it, but you must have questioned yourself a lot."

          Harry looked at his two friends, both of which were looking at Dumbledore. It wasn't as easy to be angry at them since Will had spoken in truth to them, in his new room, a few days ago. But he was nonetheless eager to be as knowledgeable as them on the situation.

"I've wondered a lot, sir."

"I can guess. Now, the guessing games end. I will need your help to gather and destroy some very specific artefacts. But not today. Today, you must learn about them. However, that will be the only introduction you will have for we must move very quickly. So be sure to ask every question that crosses your mind. I can't promise you that I will be able to answer them all, for many possible reasons, but you can be certain that whatever you hear will be the truth to the best of my knowledge."

          Harry nodded, his throat too tight to speak. That was the moment he had been waiting for.

"What do you think Voldemort's greatest fear is, Harry?"

"You, sir," Harry answered without hesitation.

          Dumbledore smiled at him, his eyes shining with amusement.

"That is very flattering. But, in Voldemort's eyes, I am just a means through which his worst fear could potentially arrive."

          Harry tried to come up with a clever answer, but he wasn't so sure.

"Uh... Powerlessness?" he offered.

"Close enough."

"Voldemort's terrified of death," Will said, putting an end to the mystery.

          Yes, it made sense, Harry thought. Who wasn't? But it wasn't natural for him to link Dumbledore with the idea of death, quite the contrary.

"Yes," Dumbledore nodded. "Voldemort fears death more than anything in this world. Since his youngest age. A student still, he was enquiring about it. He had grown close to one of his former teachers, a Professor called Horace Slughorn, now retired and in hiding. I've been able to find him again, and though he was more than elusive on the memory he shared with the student he then knew as Tom Riddle, I have been able to collect the proof that the fight against that fear of his was already on the front of Voldemort's mind and project at that time."

"You said last time that he has means of immortality. Is that what it's about?"

"Yes. As a student, he questioned his Professor about a very ancient and dangerous form of magic related to something called Horcrux. Have you ever heard that word?"

          Harry looked at his friends to see if they knew the word, but none answered. Will's eyes had left Dumbledore to lose themselves on Fawkes, and Hannibal, perfectly silent since he had entered the office, seemed to be more waiting than listening.

"Uh, no," Harry said, praying for it not to have been mentioned in class on a day where he would have been more busy talking with Ron than listening.

"It is not surprising. Very few people in the world would know about the word, even less would have in-depth knowledge about what hides behind. It is nearly forgotten, and for good reasons. An Horcrux defines an object that holds a piece of someone’s soul?"

"A piece of someone’s soul?" Harry repeated, unable to guess what it could truly look like. "What does that even mean?"

"A witch or a wizard of great power and knowledgeable in the forgotten rites could theoretically, under very specific circumstances, split their soul in two, and put one of the pieces in an object unrelated to their body."

"How do they do that?"

          Dumbledore was about to answer but Hannibal started first, interrupting in a rude fashion that was very unlike him.

"There are several ways of creating a Horcrux. The most known one requires an act of unspeakable evil, that would dehumanize one enough for them to lose a part of their soul. But it is not the only way."

"You know about that Horcrux thing?" Harry asked.

"I know about most magics you will learn about in your life."

"What are the other ways?" Dumbledore asked.

          Harry had not pictured the day where Dumbledore would ask someone about some magical knowledge he didn't already have. He was aware that Hannibal was clever, but could he really know something that the Headmaster did not?

          But there was something more, Harry could also see. Something between Dumbledore and Hannibal. As if Hannibal had taken the question as an insult. And as if Dumbledore had foreseen Hannibal's bitter defensiveness. Maybe Dumbledore was testing him. The Headmaster had said last year that Hannibal could be useful to them but that they could also do without him. Maybe he was testing his knowledge and expertise. Harry could then understand Hannibal's annoyance, considering how prideful the boy was.

"There is such a thing as self-mutilation," Hannibal said, his red eyes drilling into Dumbledore's blue one. "Sacrificing and offering. That can be a way to create a Horcrux. Willingly parting from humanity in order to embrace one of its great quests. During some parts of History, we would have called it martyrdom."

          It was obvious that each of Hannibal's words were meant as a provocation for Dumbledore, but Dumbledore didn't react, simply looking back with calm and seriousness.

"The great quests of humanity?" Harry asked in the silence that followed.

"Muggle tragedists were much more enlightened than our writers," Hannibal said, answering Harry though his eyes were still on Dumbledore. "They were able to capture an essential core of humanity still true to this day. According to them, the great quests never quite change. Power, Glory, Knowledge, Life and Love. They all answer human basic and crude needs yet also echo the higher form of human philosophy. They are the great mysteries and therefore the great motivations of an enlightened humanity.

          "Horcruxes are the results of a quest for Life. They have been created in the fear of and anger for Death, as a weapon against it. But as most weapons, they are defined by the hands wielding them. Even truer when that weapon is a piece of something as individual as a soul. It is very possible to use Horcruxes to other ends than defying Death. Another ache than the one for Life can split someone's soul."

"But a soul still needs to be split," Dumbledore pointed out.

"In art as in many other matters, completeness is pleasing, but it makes for a weak aesthetic."

"A safer, softer one."

"Dispassionate."

          Harry didn't understand what Dumbledore and Hannibal's conversation was now about and he decided to refocus the topic on what truly mattered.

"What about Voldemort? He did that Horcrux thing?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said, turning his attention back to Harry, "he did. He learned while he was still a student that the creation of a Horcrux first and foremost requires a murder."

          A strike of realization hit Harry's brain.

"Moaning Myrtle."

"I believe so," Dumbledore said with a grave voice. "The murder of Miss Warren, that we now know to be the result of Tom's actions, was, I believe, used to create a Horcrux."

"The diary," Harry said, his eyes opened wide as everything was starting to fall into place.

"What diary?" Will frowned.

"When I was in Second Year, Lucius Malfoy had given a diary to Ginny. But it contained the memory of its last owner, Voldemort. Voldemort was able to possess Ginny and was gaining more and more life from her. Ultimately, I destroyed it, and Ginny ended up alright."

"You destroyed it?"

          Will again had asked the question but his eyes, usually so aimless, were now looking at Harry with intensity, as if there was no question more important in the world than this one.

"Uh, yes..."

"How did you do that?"

"With a Basilisk fang."

"Basilisk fangs destroy Horcruxes?" Will asked directly to Hannibal.

"Yes. Horcruxes can be destroyed by anything damaging enough that they can't heal from it. Basilisk venom only has one cure, or else it is death. Fiendfyres, Death potions, Dementor's kisses are all means to destroy Horcruxes."

"Then we did it," Harry said. "We destroyed Voldemort's Horcrux."

"It is not that easy," Dumbledore nuanced. "I have suspected Tom's link with Horcruxes ever since you brought that diary to me. Maybe even before that. But I also have reasons to suspect that there may be more of them."

"More of them?"

"More than one. It is what I learned from Professor Slughorn’s dishonest confessions, and I have long wondered how many there were. But now I know. And I believe, while taking into account the one you already destroyed, that there are six of them left."

"Six pieces of soul?"

"Yes. And as long as even one of these pieces will remain, Voldemort will never know death."

          Harry slowly nodded. It was overwhelming and barely understandable but, compared to last year, he at least had something to do. A clear direction. And it was a relief beyond what he had hoped for.

"So, we will need to find these objects and destroy them?"

"Yes. That is what I will do this year. With your help."

"But what about the Prophecy?"

          Before he had left the Common Room, Hermione had reminded him of that. He still had no idea what it had been about.

"The Prophecy?"

"The one Voldemort was so desperate to have last year. How does it fit into that Horcruxes thing?"

"It doesn't," Dumbledore simply said.

"You know what it said, sir?" Harry insisted.

"I do," Hannibal answered.

"How?"

"You didn't hear it? When you break an orb, it reveals the prophecy it is keeping. When you threw it at Voldemort, it was freed. One just had to listen carefully."

"We were in the middle of a battle. There was stuff exploding everywhere and we were more or less dying."

"You would win to work on your focus, then, Harry," Hannibal simply commented.

"What did it say, then?'

          Hannibal rubbed his forehead for a second, closing his eyes as if trying to find a memory buried deep in his brain, then he quoted in a flat voice:

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies."

          He then opened his eyes and looked at Harry.

"What it loses in style, it wins in clarity. I rarely heard such straightforward prophecies."

          At a loss, Harry looked at Dumbledore.

"It's... about me? One must die at the hand of the other... Is it... me?"

"A Prophecy is not fate written in stone, Harry," Dumbledore said firmly. "Future is obscure at best, and ever-changing. The Prophecy is irrelevant."

"That's not what Voldemort thought. He tried really hard to get it."

"You will find that there are many subjects about which Voldemort is mistaken. Prophecies are never to be taken literally. Voldemort heard pieces of that prophecy before your birth, and, while trying to act against it, he actually made it happen. Had he been unaware or unbelieving of those words, they would have never come true. It is not fate which influenced Tom, it is Tom himself."

"But... It says that neither can live while..."

"It doesn't matter what it says, Harry," Dumbledore insisted. "You alone are the master of your fate. And nothing will ever change that."

          Harry wasn't sure he believed Dumbledore. The words were spinning in his head so vertiginously fast he began to feel slightly dizzy. He gripped the arms of his seat with all his strength to try and make it pass.

"Then, who's gonna kill him?" he asked in a blank voice.

"It is not what matters right now, Harry," Dumbledore said, in a softer, kinder voice. "For now, we must absolutely remain focused on the Horcruxes, as nothing is of any use if we can't destroy them."

"Yes, sir," Harry nodded though he barely felt any better. "What do we do now?"

"Now, we part for tonight. I have some ideas on where to look and I need to clarify them. As soon as I have a trail solid enough to tell you about it, I will, and we will go fetch it together. I only called you in today because, when the time comes to go fetch the Horcruxes, you all need to be fully aware of what it is about."

          Harry nodded once again. He wanted to start now, to not lose a second. But he also knew he had learned more in less than an hour then in a year. And he didn't want to make Dumbledore question his place on that search. He preferred to play it safe for now and to show he could be patient and wise.

"I will of course ask you to not make this a public matter," Dumbledore said. "However, I do think it would be a good thing for you to tell Ms Granger and Mr Weasley about what we talked about today. They are concerned and have shown great loyalty through the years. They deserve as much."

"Yes, sir."

"Was there anything else you wanted to ask? Any of you?"

“Actually… there is…”

          Harry forced himself not to look at Will for support, keeping his eyes on Dumbledore’s.

“Yes?”

“It’s about Draco Malfoy. And Sna… Professor Snape.”

“What about them?”

          Harry took a long breath and said it all at once, before he could be interrupted.

“I believe Draco Malfoy may have been recruited by Voldemort over the summer. I have reasons to believe that he tried to purchase something at Borgin and Burkes and that he now has the mark of the Death Eater. Also, I overheard Professor Snape talking to him. He was saying that he has made an Unbreakable Vow with Narcissa Malfoy, to help him in his task. Sir, I swear there’s something going on, I know you…”

“Harry. Harry…”

          Dumbledore had held his hand open to interrupt him. Harry knew it would happen but at least he had talked fast enough to get all the important words out first.

          After a few seconds during which Harry started to breathe again, Dumbledore resumed.

“Thank you for telling me this, Harry, and trusting me with that knowledge. You can be sure I will keep it in mind.”

“You believe me, sir?” he asked, unable to keep hope away from his voice.

“I believe you are perfectly sincere. Now, I will ask to entrust that matter to me, and let me handle it as I think is best.”

“Yes… sure… but like… what will you do about Snape? Professor Snape, I mean.”

“I will do what is necessary. I have to tell you however that Professor Snape has my full trust.”

“But… have you heard what I just said?”

“Yes Harry. I have heard. And understood. Now, I believe not much is left to be said about it.”

          Harry opened his mouth, ready to argue and stand his ground, but something in Dumbledore’s eyes let him know that he wouldn’t be able to get his point across. Frustrated, he kept his mouth shut.

          At least, he had been able to learn a lot from that meeting. He should first focus on what was gained, rather than the failure of getting his point across. He was certain he would learn more about Draco and Snape at some point, and then Dumbledore would have no other choice but to believe him.

“Is there any other matter you wanted to address with me?”

"Why Acid Pops?" Hannibal asked before anyone could say anything else.

          Once again, Hannibal efficiently distracted Harry from the matters on in his mind.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your password. Why Acid Pops?"

"Because I like them."

"You said at the beginning of this conversation that you would tell the truth to the best of your knowledge."

"I did say that."

"How about," Will cut, talking over Hannibal's beginning of a comeback, "we stop it there. I'm tired and that's a lot. Let's call it a night."

          Whether or not the others were agreeing with him, Will stood up from the armchair. Harry followed him quickly, and, after they had all said their goodbyes, they exited the office, a reluctant Hannibal following them.

          It was only when they had left the third floor that Harry dared to say it.

"You're really not very kind with Dumbledore," he stated while trying to not make it sound like an attack against Hannibal.

          And truly, it wasn’t. He still wasn’t too happy about how his intel about Snape and Malfoy had been put aside. He wasn’t certain that Dumbledore was really understanding the situation. But compared to Hannibal, who had just basically called him a liar, there was a world.

"I wouldn't say I am unkind to him."

"No, you're not. But, the two of you... it's kinda tense. You don't think so, Will?"

"I'd like to recuse myself from the whole conversation," Will carefully said.

"Professor Dumbledore started the hostilities," Hannibal simply said.

"Is it about the Dursleys? I've noticed you've been... not annoyed but something like that. I get it but... I don't know. He's been doing it for our good."

"What makes you think that?" Hannibal asked.

"He explained so last year."

"And you take it as words of truth that can't hide any kind of agenda."

"Why wouldn't I believe that?"

"Why would you?"

"Because he is Dumbledore?"

          Harry wasn't defensive. He wasn't irritated at all by Hannibal's suspicions. He could understand that his friend may not give his trust easily, but he genuinely wanted to help him with that. He could somehow tell that, in the quest to come, they would need to have each other's back fully.

"I agree with that statement," Hannibal said. "I disagree with what you imply with it."

"Will said last year that you were in some kind of dick contest with Dumbledore."

          Hannibal looked at Will.

"Did he say so, really?"

"I meant it in a fond, loving way," Will nuanced.

"I am not in any contest, Harry," he says, his eyes still on Will's. "And I harbour no hate for Professor Dumbledore. Quite the contrary, I look forward to the quality time we will all spend together. But you must remember that no one is all good, and no one is all bad. A world seen through Manichaeisms is a world forever misunderstood."

          Harry nodded without being fully certain he understood. They then walked in silence for a while, Hannibal following them through the higher floors, maybe walking toward Will's room. It was only as they were climbing up the stairs between the Sixth Floor and the Seventh Floor than Harry said:

"I don't know about nothing being all bad, but still. How fucked up must you be to want to create an Horcrux..."

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 8

A Sense of Measure

          There were few things as unsettling as a deeply rooted ritual taking place in a slightly different fashion than usual.

          The yearly beer with Albus to celebrate the beginning of the term was a ritual, for Minerva McGonagall, which roots were as old as her teaching career. It had always been the same. The two of them, an office, a beer none of them really enjoyed, and light-hearted and heavy-hearted talks about the future.

          Tonight, they only had the office and the beer.

          Minerva detailed Shikibu Murasaki who was sitting by her side. She had first seen the woman more than a year ago, during their initial meeting with her adopted son and his boyfriend. Then she had not caught a glimpse of her before the feast, on the first day of the term, when Dumbledore had surprised everyone with that unexpected Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Not that Minerva had any hard feelings against her colleague. She would have simply liked to know more about her credentials. But maybe tonight was her chance.

          Professor Murasaki was younger than Minerva by far, having barely entered her forties. However, Hogwarts had known younger teachers, like Severus, Albus or Minerva herself. That having been said, Minerva had had a solid start of career in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement before accepting a teaching post. And Albus had been renowned and rewarded for years ahead of his hiring. Severus was a bit of a peculiar case, and certainly, so was Professor Murasaki.

"The Winston siblings left this morning."

          Albus had said that in an absent voice. His armchair was slightly turned toward the fireplace they had lit despite the warm day behind them.

          At that sentence, any desire to question Professor Murasaki flew off Minerva's mind.

"Siblings? The sister too? Marly Winston told me yesterday that she knew her parents wanted them home, but that she would never leave Hogwarts without a diploma."

"The sister too. I don't believe any of them have been consulted on that matter. The parents are very worried."

"Why are the students leaving?" Professor Murasaki asked.

"Because of the looming threat," Minerva answered. "You-Know-Who is back, and no one is safe. Every student with a distant muggle relative, or linked to a family that has been known at any point to stand for what You-Know-Who stands against, is very worried. A lot of people have been disappearing lately. I can't blame the parents; their fear is very legitimate."

"Indeed," Albus nodded. "But by answering to that fear, they often put their children away from safety. The most endangered of them are more likely to be attacked at home than at Hogwarts."

"Maybe. But parents can't bear the idea of being away the day something will happen to their child. They would rather put them at risk themselves than leave them alone."

          Professor Murasaki was the only one among them who had children of her own, and maybe she was the only one truly able to know what those parents were living. Minerva would do anything for the safety of her students, and the death of even one of them would burden her for ever, the same way she was still thinking of Cedric Diggory each time she was walking by the tree under which he always spent times with his friends during recess, and the same way she couldn't bear the idea to get rid of her only copy of the Quibbler she had used to fix a wobbly table in her office. Minerva remembered every student that had died during their time at Hogwarts and carried them around, hidden somewhere behind her severity.

          But it had to be different from the visceral fear and pain of losing one's own flesh. Or an adopted flesh.

"That is what they say indeed," Dumbledore agreed, his eyes lost in the flames. "'At least, we will be together'. But when these children leave Hogwarts, there is nothing left for us to do but hope for the best."

          Minerva thought that Albus was doing a bit more than just hope. She could tell he was working on something. His repeated absences from the castle, his exhausted face and his secretive reclusion in his office, they were all the result of something. Something big, and something that had to be connected with Voldemort. However, with all the years they had shared, Minerva now knew when her questions wouldn't be answered. Therefore, she could do little more than put her whole trust into her lifelong friend.

"How is Harry Potter doing in class?" Albus suddenly asked, his eyes leaving the fire to find his two colleagues. "Does he seem more distracted? Worried?"

"I would say he is doing quite well," Minerva said, trying to remember any significant interaction she may have had with the boy that week. "He actually seems more invested in class than last year. I was a bit afraid, with all that is happening, but I think he takes seriously everything he can learn right now. Which is a good change, Potter is a clever boy and he can do wonders when he works on something."

"I don't know Mister Potter as well as you," Professor Murasaki said. "He seems passionate about my subject, but I cannot compare that passion to previous years. He is a skilled duellist, I believe. He lacks a decent arsenal of spells, but he makes do with wit and speed."

"You will focus more on duels for your Sixth Year?" Minerva asked.

"For all my Years. I believe that it is what they will need very urgently."

"I believe so too, sadly," Albus said. "They didn't have a very coherent curriculum, so far. Working on giving them the skills they presently need is wiser than paving a future. Especially since I am guessing you are not coming back next year."

"Is the curse I have been told about real?" Professor Murasaki asked.

          Minerva was the first to say that there was no such curse. But it was not because she was saying it that she was believing it. She had accepted that her Defence colleague was doomed to change every year.

"Even if it was not real, or even if it was lifted, would you come back without your nephew?"

          Minerva didn't understand, this time. What was that about? Professor Murasaki didn't react for a full second, leading to believe she was surprised as well, but then she simply closed her eyes and breathed out.

"Hannibal is leaving at the end of the year," she stated in understanding.

"What do you mean, he is leaving at the end of the year?" Minerva frowned. "He still has two years left."

"Lecter and Graham informed me of their choice to drop out at the end of the year. They plan on taking the NEWT exams as external candidates at Ilvermorny and graduate a year early."

"But it is not something that is done at all! They still have too much to learn."

"It is not something that is done, but it is something that can be done. And, by the start of the next year, both Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter will be adults. It is up to them to decide, no matter our opinion. Have they told you about their plan?" Albus asked Professor Murasaki.

"No. But it does not surprise me. I should have guessed that Hannibal wouldn't come back for a year more than strictly necessary."

          Minerva couldn't accept that. They would be adults indeed, but they were still very young. And there was nothing rushing them. Nothing could be gained from graduating a year early.

          There was something else worrying her, however. Deeply. And it was that she suspected they were about to rush into a life that wasn't their own. She had talked about it with Pomona. Her friend had told her that Lecter was unsure of the establishment of higher education he wanted to attend as it would depend on Graham's choices. She also knew that Graham's access to school would rely completely on Lecter's willingness to pay for it.

          Minerva knew how adolescent love was passionate and absolutist. How one could be fooled into thinking that it was all there was in life. But, thankfully, that kind of raw and blinding feeling was experienced at a time where students couldn't really hurt themselves with bad choices and urged decisions.

          If Lecter and Graham hadn't outgrown their dependency to each other by the time of their graduation and were to start their life with such unwise and unreasonable basis, that could only end terribly for the both of them.

          Not that Minerva didn't wish them all the love in the world. Simply, they had to learn that love didn't mean that everything else and everything personal suddenly became subsidiary.

"Are we still seeing them every fortnight?" Minerva asked.

          She hadn't made a lot of progress with Will last year. But at least they had been able to discuss once or twice about his relationship with Lecter. Minerva really didn't think the boys should be left alone with it. Whatever was between them, it seemed heavy and suffocating, and, whether or not the two boyfriends were aware of it, they truly needed help.

"I will be receiving them. Not every fortnight, as my schedules are a bit complicated for now, but I will do my best to keep a close eye on them and try to maintain contact."

"The two of them together?"

"I believe that would be more fruitful."

          Possibly indeed. Minerva didn't believe any of Graham's problems could be addressed without addressing his problems with Lecter.

"Any advice?" Albus asked, his eyes on Professor Murasaki.

"On how to speak with Hannibal?"

"And Will."

          Minerva's colleague carefully detailed the portraits of the past Headmasters and Headmistresses, as if trying to find an answer among their frames. She took her time and gave the question a long thought. Apparently, it was no small talk topic for her, and there was a seriousness on her face that couldn’t be missed.

          Albus didn’t disturb the silence either. He had all his focus on Professor Murasaki and seemed to be readying his mind for what was to come. As if he expected to be told some big truth about the universe from a Genesitic entity.

"I don't know Will as well as Hannibal,” she finally said. “And whether or not I know Hannibal is up to debate. But if you want to talk to them, you will have to keep in mind that you are talking to three entities. And each requires its own specific language and strategy."

"Three entities?" Minerva repeated.

"Hannibal. Will. Them. They are as three as they are one."

"What do you think I must keep in mind for each of them?"

          Albus was not sitting against the back of his throne anymore. He had leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, his hands crossed under his eyes. He had all his very careful focus already turned toward Professor Murasaki's next words.

"Hannibal is an offensive mind,” the Defence teacher said softly, her eyes now on the fire. “He may seem placid, but he is not passive. If you talk to him, he will take something from you. Every single time. And what he is able to take from you, it can't be taken back.

          “For someone clever enough, it is easy to get a reaction out of him. I believe you are clever enough. If you want to anger him, or worry him, you shouldn't struggle too much. The same goes if you want to flatter or please him. But you need to remember that his emotions are but outliers. They are too far from his core to mean anything. You can't let yourself be distracted by them. But you can use them to distract him.

          “Hannibal's attention is vast and exacerbated by his intelligence. But it struggles to resist lures. What irritates him or what pleases him is often granted immediate attention, and he is willing to scupper himself on some fronts if that allows him to progress in those that interest him most, either positively or negatively."

          There was something in the way Professor Murasaki was speaking of Lecter – her own child – that Minerva found profoundly unsettling. As if he was some kind of entity or spirit rather than a boy. As if communicating with him was a war rather than a talk. But Albus didn't seem to have the same opinion because he nodded with great care and understanding.

"What about Will Graham?" he asked.

"From what I’ve gathered, Will Graham is similar to Hannibal, in an opposite kind of fashion. Unlike Hannibal, Will is a protective mind. He won't try to get something from you. He won't try to twist or use everything that you won't be able to keep out of his reach. However, you will find that it is much harder to get a sense of him than it is for Hannibal.

          “Will Graham, as far as I have been able to see, is a liar. An unguessable one. If you try to dig a bit too much, Hannibal may deceit, and may redirect or may retaliate. Will Graham will lose you. He will change and you won't be able to remember what you are here for.

          “However, and contrary to Hannibal, you can exchange with him. If you are able to understand his reason, and if you are able to call to it, you may find that you are able to work with each other. You won't ever take something from him, but he can give away."

"Are we talking about discussion or mind chess?" Minerva couldn't help but ask.

"They are one and the same for them," her colleague answered.

"Albus, you don't plan on using any mind magic on them, don't you?"

"No, Minerva. I assure you. I am simply getting ready for our talks."

"It doesn't sound like communication, Albus."

"I know, Minerva. I am fully aware."

          Knowing didn't mean acting on it however, and Albus continued.

"What about Them?"

"When together, they create some sort of... third party. One they think about constantly. When you talk to them, they will think of Will, they will think of Hannibal, but they will also think of that... couple, relation... unit, call it what you want. That idea they form together. That is detached from both of them and that precede them in order of importance. Hannibal would sabotage Will in a heartbeat in the name of the principle of that Them. Will would betray Hannibal without remorse for the same reason."

"How can sabotaging one of them be good for their couple?" Minerva asked.

"It can be good because they don't have the same expectations for that Them. And they are aware of that. If they want for that Them to become what they wish, they know they sometimes have to fight each other. Ultimately, that is what needs to be kept in mind. When they work together for that Third Entity, they put at its service their strengths but also their weaknesses. If you have them together, Will Graham will protect Hannibal, Hannibal will avenge Will Graham. But they are aware of the other's flaws two.

          “Nothing will allow you to distract Hannibal's complete focus more than having Will Graham meet you halfway. And nothing will make Will Graham willing to compromise more than him sensing that you're getting a grip of Hannibal's focus. If you are able to navigate between them that way, then I believe you can hope to achieve a misdirected Hannibal and an accommodating Will. A misdirected Hannibal may concede secondary fronts that are primordial for you in order to win primordial fronts that are secondary for you; an accommodating Will may give away what you need from him."

"I don't like that at all," Minerva felt the need to say. "It sounds like we are working against them rather than with them. I don't think it can be healthy in any way to develop that kind of interaction with students."

"I don't like it any more than you do, Professor McGonagall," Professor Murasaki said. "And there isn't a day where I have not hoped for things to be different. But sadly, no amount of hope can change that. Whether or not you take into consideration what I said is up to you. Maybe you will find another truth altogether. But the fact behind remains. One does not talk to Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham with flippancy. Not without a great deal of consequences."

          Minerva didn't know if the grave air on her colleague's face was absolutely necessary.

"What is the worst that could possibly happen?"

"In all honesty, Professor McGonagall, I fear the day I will know."

"This year's gonna be so hard," Harry sighed.

          The paper ball flew in the air, formed a perfect bell-shaped arc, barely brushed against the ceiling in a soft hiss, before falling down and ending its race right into the bin.

"And yet again," Harry exclaimed, his joy contrasting with the annoyance he had shown less than a second ago.

"You're not that far ahead of me," Ron grumbled, taking a new piece of paper to crumple it and have a go.

          He threw the ball, which followed a trajectory not that different from Harry's, hit the rim of the bin, bounced back into the air, before falling down, this time inside the bin.

"See? You can't widen the gap!"

          They were all in the Hospital Wing. Though not for any sad or painful reason. The Hospital Wing was simply empty this evening. Yet, Hannibal was still on duty, as Madam Pomfrey had asked him to replenish the stock of potions. He therefore had hours of brewing ahead of him and Will had decided to keep him company. Harry wasn't sure how he had ended up tagging along with Hermione and Ron, he was certain Will had not asked in the slightest, yet here they were. Ron and he were lying on the beds, a pile of parchment on a chair between them, throwing balls into a bin they couldn't see once their heads were on the pillows. Will was sitting on one of the windowsills, Orphy on his knees, his hands softly patting the golden bird, Hannibal was behind Pomfrey's desk, by the fireplace, where a liquid was smoking and bubbling from one of his strangely small cauldrons, and Hermione was by his side, handing him ingredients or turning the ladle when he was busy cutting the next root to add.

"If you study your notes, instead of throwing them in the bin, maybe it will be less hard," Hermione said, dropping in the cauldron in front of her the dry petals Hannibal had just put aside.

"He is not talking about class," Ron explained. "He is talking about Quidditch."

"You're done with the try-outs?" Will asked.

          Harry winced, trying to keep the memory of the try-outs as far away from his mind as possible.

"Yeah. I guess I am. T'wasn't brilliant."

"You've joined the team again, Ronald?" Hannibal asked, crushing some ingredients with the flat of the blade.

"Yeah. We've trained hard, Harry and I, over the summer. I'm a bit better now."

"You've always been good," Harry said. "You just need to trust yourself."

"What about the other players?"

"Ginny made the team of course. She is so very good, you should have seen her fly! And Katie stayed also. But others..."

          They were pathetic. The third Chaser barely knew how to sit on a broom. The two Beaters were massive but that was all they had going for them.

"... are in need of work," Harry finished with moderation.

"At least, McLaggen didn't make it..."

"But he is a reserve player..."

          Despite some of them being major liabilities, Harry truly hoped that nothing would ever happen to his players because the mere idea of flying with McLaggen was not far from making him gag.

"Who's McLaggen?" Will asked.

"A Gryffindor student a year above you," Hannibal answered. "Rather tall, clear eyes and loud voice. Unpleasant character, but relatively agreeable looks."

"You know the guy," Harry nodded. “Though I wouldn’t say anything’s agreeable about him. The unpleasant character, though, you nailed his description.”

"I thought you liked people full of themselves," Hermione said to Hannibal. "Like Fleur or you."

"That would be a big misunderstanding of my words. I implied indeed that vanity is not the worst of flaws. But vanity built upon false basis becomes risible. Fleur and I have good reasons to be vainglorious. Cormac is not proud, he is a braggart. And that, Hermione, is always of very poor taste."

          Harry didn't see the difference Hannibal was talking about. The only difference he cared to know about was that Hannibal was his friend and McLaggen wasn't.

"You think you have a chance to win?" Hermione asked, visibly trying her best to take an interest in her friends’ passion.

"Depends," Harry shrugged. "But I wouldn't be too hopeful."

          Though, hopeful he still was, in some ways. His eyes fell on Will who was looking through the window, Orphy nestled on his lap.

"You're really sure you don't wanna join the team, Will?" he asked, feeling like he had spent the week asking that question.

"Yes, Harry. Sure."

"But you could do so great!" Ron exclaimed, straightening up to look at Will with pleading eyes. "You're one of the fastest flyers I've ever seen, and you're good at dodging and turning! You'd be insane as a Chaser! You, Ginny and Katie, that'd be a win!"

"I'm sure. I don't wanna be part of any kind of team."

"You wouldn't do that for your friends?" Ron asked, with a sad face and teary eyes. "So that Harry's first year as the Captain can end with a win?"

"And for the pleasure to keep McLaggen even further away from the team?" Harry added.

"It's not just that I'm not into Quidditch. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't anyway. Sorry, guys."

"If it's because you lost your broom, we can find you a new one!" Harry exclaimed.

          He would pay it himself without a second of hesitation if that could make him win Will as a player.

"It's not the broom," Will said. "It's the schoolwork."

"What about it?" Ron frowned.

"There's a hell lot of it. I can't spend all my weekends playing Quidditch with you. I have a lot to catch up on."

"Like every year. And we managed. Oliver Wood was Captain of the team while studying for his NEWT, three years ago."

"Will have more on his plate this year than any other," Hannibal said, slowly mixing his potion. "He will need all the time he can get, and you are not doing him any good by trying to force his hand. Quidditch wouldn't be wise this year."

"Why does he have more on his plate?" Harry asked, sitting up.

          Before a word could be said, he already had a bad feeling about it.

"Cause I'm taking my NEWTs in May," Will answered, his eyes now on Orphy. "Hannibal and I both are."

"NEWTs are next year," Hermione said, as she had stopped in the middle of her motion, the snake eye forgotten in her hand.

"We will go to Ilvermorny to take them as external candidates."

"But then... What are you gonna do, during your Seventh Year, if you already got your NEWTs? You're gonna spend the year watching us work our ass off while you're spending all your time in the park?"

          Harry knew the answer to Ron's question. Yet, when Hannibal voiced it, he couldn't help the sharp pain stabbing his heart. With the familiar burn that came with betrayal.

"We won't be coming back next year. This one is our final one."

          A moment of silence followed.

          Ron, Harry and Hermione were looking at one then the other of the two boyfriends, each of them stuck at a different level of understanding.

"What do you mean, it's your final year?" Ron said, dumbfounded.

"Is final what comes at the end of a series."

"I know what final means!" Ron exclaimed.

          Will tried again, more kindly than Hannibal.

"Next year, when you'll come back for your Seventh Year, Hannibal and I will be starting our higher education. We will be back in the US."

"So... It's the last year we’re spending together?" Hermione asked Will."

"Yes," Hannibal answered. “It is.”

          Maybe there was sadness among all the vivid emotions that were throbbing in Harry's chest. Maybe there was fear of separation, and regret for the added time they could have spent together. But the loudest voice in that cacophony of feelings was anger's.

          As the astonished seconds were ticking by, Harry could feel his anger grow.

          Hannibal and Will were running away.

"Why?" Harry forced himself to ask in a tone calmer than he was.

"Because we can," Hannibal answered.

"You don't do something just ‘cause you can," Harry said. "You must have a reason to give up on us before the end."

"Harry, don't..." Hermione began but Hannibal cut her off.

"It is more than fine, Hermione. Partings often cause heartbreaks."

"I'm not heartbroken," Harry said, "I'm pissed off. You promised."

"What did I promise, Harry?"

"That you'd stay by our side! That you'd help us! You said we would walk the road together!"

"I said we would walk parts of that road together. I said I would help you for a time."

"And you're always so good with words, right? So subtly clever."

          It wasn't a question.

          Harry didn't want to hear more of it. Now on his feet, he ignored his bag on the bedside table and simply stormed off, without a single word nor glance for anyone. Hannibal was always right anyway. There was no point talking.

          Once outside the Hospital Wing, Harry didn't need to know where he was going in order to walk away as fast as he could, his angry steps leading him astray, but far at least.

          He didn't remember exactly what Hannibal had promised or the precise words he had used. And maybe, it was true, maybe he had specifically said that he wouldn't stay forever. But that didn't calm Harry's anger. Because he needed Hannibal. He needed them both. He had asked for their help, had been willing to beg. And now, Hannibal and Will were leaving. They wouldn't be there to the end. And Harry was left alone to carry all the responsibility.

          Harry had run down the first set of stairs he had found and was now somewhere between the ground floor and the dungeons, in a small isolated circular staircase of dark stones. Alone at last, Harry let himself fall on the last step.

          He could sense his hands trembling and he clenched them together, pressing his forehead against his fists.

          He couldn't ignore them, he couldn't deny their clarity, as fast-paced images were flashing in front of his eyes.

          Will's black storm.

          Hannibal's stone warriors.

          The bright green light flying toward Ron, illuminating his face.

          Blood spurting from Neville's head.

          Hermione, Ginny and Luna disappearing in the darkness, unable to catch up.

          The door of the elevator closing a second before the Death Eaters could smash into it.

          Voldemort waiting in the Atrium.

          His dark, fatal magic.

          Harry could see it all before his eyes. He could also remember what had not happened. Somehow, he could recall the same events without Will and Hannibal. The same violence, without the one they had had on their side.

          Harry's breath was short and painful, as he was trying his best to take small, quick breaths despite the gut-wrenching flashes of fear and tragedy before his eyes.

          Hannibal and Will would leave, and Harry would be left alone against Voldemort.

          His heart was pounding in his chest, hammering against his ribs.

          What would be the consequences, next time? Who would die? Who Harry would have to mourn?

          He could hardly see anything. His vision had suddenly darkened and narrowed, though he couldn't explain it himself.

          He was glad he was sitting down because nasty vertigos were creeping in the back of his brain.

          Not that it was enough to take his mind of that simple fact he was repeating to himself in a loop in his mind.

          Hannibal and Will would leave.

          And Harry would be alone against Voldemort.

          Dumbledore had said it didn't matter who would deliver the last blow. But it mattered.

          If not Hannibal.

          If not Will.

          That was all on Harry. And the weight was fucking crushing.

"Harry?"

          Startled, Harry nearly jumped on his feet. He turned around to see who had called him. Above him, on the stairs, Ginny was standing, looking down at him with a frown.

"Someone told me they saw you run away. You didn't look so good. You're alright?"

"Yeah. Don't worry. Everything's fine."

          He tried to be convincing. He even added a smile to it. But his breath was too short, his heart too loud, and he could barely see Ginny through the blur of his sight.

          In any case, the girl didn't buy a word of it.

          Quickly, she jumped down the steps and knelt by Harry's side, her hand finding his shoulder.

"What is it? You need to go to the Hospital Wing?"

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine, you're obviously..."

"I said I'm fine!"

          Ginny was not the kind of person that would allow anyone to talk to her like that. However, this time, she didn't mention it.

          She simply remained silent, one hand on Harry's shoulder, the other on his forearm. And she waited it out with him.

          Realizing that dwelling on his thoughts was doing nothing more than darkening his vision, Harry tried his best to focus on something else. The feeling of Ginny's thumb drawing circle on the skin of his forearm through the fabric of his shirt was a good distraction and he kept all his attention directed toward it.

          The circles were light and regular, predictable and soothing, and Harry tried his best to follow the gesture with his thoughts. Slowly, as the minutes were passing by, he felt his heart slow down and his breath deepen. Though the weight was still latent in his chest, and he still had the threatening shadow of his own loneliness in the back of his mind, he could at least see more clearly. And breathe at last.

"Sorry," he said after a while, once his voice, much like his hands, wasn't trembling so much anymore. "I shouldn't have talked to you like that."

          Ginny sat down by his side but, much to Harry's relief, she kept her hand on his forearm. He felt like, if she was to deprive him of that one contact, nothing would prevent his mind from going back to what was weighing so much on his chest.

"That's fine," she simply said. "I should have given you more time. I was just worried."

"I know. Thanks."

          They remained here for a while, sitting in silence by each other’s side, waiting for the future to be less menacing, and for fear to be less crushing. Even if it was derisory, her presence was driving away the perspective of Hannibal and Will's absence and even if Harry knew he still had to fight alone, at the very least he didn't have to sit on his own as he waited for the end.

"You may as well learn it from me," Harry finally said after what could have well been half an hour, "I don't think it's a secret anyway. Hannibal and Will are leaving by the end of the year. They're gonna take their NEWTs early, and graduate before the beginning of the Seventh Year. So they won't be coming back."

"Oh..."

          It was Ginny's only response, but Harry could tell by the expression on her face that she was slowly realizing all the implications of that statement.

"Oh," she said again once she was done.

"Yeah. It sucks."

"It does. They are more of a help for you than we are, aren't they?"

          She had understood at once what Harry had been thinking about and he felt the need to defend his unkind views.

"Not at all. You're all just as precious and..."

"Drop it, Harry. I get it. We're friends, I know that. And the power of friendship is great and all, but we're talking about a war. And we're all aware that there's you and Dumbledore on one side, and us on the other. Doesn't mean we can't help you to the best of our ability. But these abilities are not Will and Hannibal's abilities. I'm fully aware that I don't know how to create fire demons and pet storms. And it really sucks that they're leaving."

          Ginny didn't seem bothered in the slightest and Harry was nearly relieved that he wasn't the only one that had first thought of those facts. He was glad he didn't have to spare her feelings as much as her brother's.

"What are you gonna do now?" she asked.

"Well. Nothing. What could I do anyway?"

"You only have one year left. Make the most of it?"

          Harry didn't know how he could concretely do that. But he shrugged, nonetheless.

"Yeah. Maybe."

          For a while, they remained silent, each to their own private thoughts, when Ginny asked again:

"Why are they leaving?"

"Cause they have no reason to come back, if they’ve graduated."

"Yeah, I got that part. I mean, why do they need to graduate early?"

          That was actually a good question. Why were they rushing out of school? Hermione was years ahead of her classmates, yet she had never considered graduating early. Hannibal didn't seem bored, and Will wasn't that good in class. What was there in it for them?

"I don't know. Cause they can?"

"That's all?"

"You guys're here? We’ve looked everywhere for you."

          Harry and Ginny turned around at once, startled by that voice from behind them.

          Ron and Hermione were a couple of steps above them and were watching them both with curious eyes.

          Instinctively, Ginny let go of Harry's arm and both shoved their hands in their pockets.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked his friends.

"What are you doing here?" Ron countered.

"We were searching for you, of course," Hermione said.

          Both newcomers walked down the few steps left and sat down on both sides of Harry and Ginny.

"You left Will and Hannibal in the Hospital Wings?" Harry wondered.

"Well, we wanted to look for you but Hannibal still had potions to brew. And Will said you'd want to take a break from them."

"I don't want to take a break from anyone," Harry defended himself. "It's fine if they wanna leave. It's a good thing even. I'm happy for them. I'm sure they'll do great."

          If anyone noticed the bitterness behind Harry's voice, none mentioned it.

"In any case..." Hermione softly interrupted, "I don't want to sound corny, but we've still got each other. There's that."

"It's a bit corny indeed, but absolutely true," Ginny nodded. "We're in this all together. Till the very end."

"And even since the beginning!" Ron reminded them. "Hannibal and Will have been there for a year, and we've been there since the first train journey!"

"Very true!" Hermione nodded. "Ron and his stain on the nose. My first impression of him. And you know what they say about first impressions..."

          Harry smiled fondly at that memory. It seemed so far away. Their first time meeting each other. Ginny, holding her mother's hand. Ron and his corned beef sandwich. Hermione looking for Trevor. It was all so foreign, now, as the three of them were sitting on the last step leading to the Dungeons.

"You remember Fluffy?" Ron asked rhetorically.

"Of course," Hermione nodded. "Our first adventure together."

          It seemed like a fairy-tale of sorts. Hermione, Ron and Harry facing the successive trials. Without fear because they had no idea yet how real it could become, how quickly they could lose.

"Fluffy?" Ginny asked.

"A three-headed dog," Ron told her. "It was before your first year. Harry played the flute to put the dog to sleep, Hermione burned down a Devil's Snare and I won a chess game. Long story short, we were eleven, and kinda badass."

"We were indeed," Hermione said, lost in her memories. "I didn't realize that in the moment but... it's pretty impressive, isn't it?"

"It is," Harry admitted.

"We're lucky to have met them," Hermione concluded about Hannibal and Will. "We really are. They are great friends, and great wizards. But if they truly leave, and if it's all up to us four... then I couldn't wish for better company."

          Something was shining in her eyes, between tears and pride, and Harry could feel that exact same emotion in that precious moment. He passed an arm around Hermione's shoulder and, quickly enough, Ron and Ginny joined as well.

          Harry knew it wouldn't solve anything. At the end, it would still be him and Voldemort. But, in the meantime and until the very least moment, he knew he could rely on them.

          It had to mean something.

          It was hard to notice the changes, when it came to Will Graham.

          Hannibal Lecter, it was easy. He had won inches and lost pounds. His face had become harsher, his hands softer, his eyes colder, his smile warmer. It was unmissable.

          Will Graham, however... If one was to look carefully, undistracted by their first impression, then they would notice that the boy had changed too. Though he used to be shorter than the younger students, he was now nearly the average height for boys his age. Maybe because he had grown up, maybe because he was standing straighter. His eyes were more visible, as they would more often meet others, and his whole demeanour was transfigured by the disappearance of most of his nervous tics.

          Yet, though the changes were non negligible, they kept being neglected, for some reason. As if something in the boy was tricking the observing eyes into disregarding any unexpected difference. No matter how careful one was while detailing Will Graham, their first thought would always be that the boy was just as short and just as nervous as he had always been.

          But, as both Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham were sitting in front of him, Albus Dumbledore could tell he wasn't. And he knew he had to keep it in mind. Among many other observations and crucial deductions.

"How have your first weeks been?"

          No one answered him at first.

          The three occupants of the room were gauging each other, organizing their own hands of cards, and guessing the possible outcomes of the next couple of sentences.

          Albus wondered for a second if it had been wise of him to meet them both at once. He knew that the reality of Will and Hannibal laid somewhere in-between them, and none could be figured out without the other. But if he had been able to remain in control of most of his talks with Hannibal, he knew adding Will into it would bury a seed of chaos under their fragile dynamics that would blossom one day or another.

          But it wasn't as if he had much choice anyway. He didn't have another year to waste on fruitless chitchats. He had to be daring or to be silent.

"Fine. Lots of work. But it's nice to have a bit less classes."

          It was Will who had answered, much to Albus' surprise. He had thought that Hannibal would be carrying most of the weight of the small talk. He seemed to love that. Yet, now that Will was here with them, Hannibal was much more silent than he had ever been. Observing both his boyfriend and his Headmaster with a guarded stillness.

          Albus couldn't deny the thrill of excitement running down the back of his mind. He knew both boys were dangerous. And he knew he was jumping headfirst into unknown waters, much deeper and much darker than the surface was hinting. But he couldn't help the childish eagerness of finally being faced with something of his complexity. Something worth his mind. He couldn't wait to understand. To unravel.

          He hadn't met anything as completely engrossing since Gellert. And as they were meeting eyes, they all knew they were facing a match.

          It was a chess game. They were all aware of that.

"Are you able to keep up with the added work for the NEWT exams?"

"We manage. Hannibal's making sure I'm not falling behind."

          Will talked in a very different fashion than Hannibal. When they were addressed to Albus, there was a tension behind Hannibal's every word. Not quite a tension. But an aim. His breath had an agenda. And each sound was a test.

          Will was... casual. Somewhere between passive and disinvested. He didn't mind how his words sounded, and what would be thought of them. He was not tailoring them for the mind receiving them. He was nonchalant with them.

          Albus had well in mind what Lady Murasaki had told him about both boys and how they communicated. But he also remembered that she had pointed out that Will was an unreadable liar.

          How easy would it be to tell a lie of nonchalance?

          On the other hand, Albus didn't want to believe the worst of his interlocutors. They were not some evil entities out to destroy the world. At least he certainly hoped they weren’t indeed.

          And with the best of them in mind, Albus moved on from the small talk.

"You could have chosen to put an end to those interviews. You did not? Why resume?"

          Hannibal looked at Will, as if, even though the words were not coming from his lips, the question was nonetheless on his mind.

"Why not?" Will shrugged. "You said you thought it wasn't a bad idea to stay in contact. We're gonna be on the same side for the year to come, I don't see why we should avoid each other."

"That is also your opinion, Hannibal?"

          It took a couple of seconds for Hannibal to detach his eyes from Will and turn them toward Albus.

"No," he simply stated. "I do believe both you and us could do more impactful things with our time."

          Albus was nearly glad to hear that answer. The worst that could have happened in this conversation was if Will and Hannibal had decided to make blind common causes out of everything. He knew they were allies against all odds, but at least they were dissonant. Which was all the more fascinating.

          That was the word Albus had trouble to admit.

          Hannibal and Will fascinated him.

"What more impactful thing do you have in mind?"

"I was thinking of Halloween-related matters."

          It was one of Hannibal's habits that Albus had been able to notice last year. The boy was fond of ruptures. Both in terms of rhythm and melody. It was an elegant way for him to take control over any conversation. They would talk about a topic and Hannibal would break the stream of conversation by an impromptu reference, dissimilar in tone, either lighter or heavier than the former sentence, which would end up disturbing the locutor enough to force them to follow Hannibal's new lead.

          Albus had made careful notes of that little trick and knew how to derail it. However, what Hannibal failed in surprise he succeeded in lure and more often than not, Albus would follow his deceitful lead just because he was curious where it would go.

          This time again, though fully aware, Albus walked into the ambush.

"Halloween-related matters?" he asked.

"Yes."

          Will detailed Hannibal the same way Hannibal had detailed him before. He seemed to hesitate for less than a second, wondering if he wanted to step in, but he finally leaned back in his armchair, and let Hannibal pursue.

          Albus couldn't help but suspect that Will had every intention of acting like Hannibal's safeguard, jumping in to censure his boyfriend each time he would think something unwise was about to be said.

          What Lady Murasaki had said was already proving itself to be true. Will Graham was protecting something, and he was willing to frustrate Hannibal for that.

"I don't know if I have ever been able to tell you about my passion for the gastronomic arts."

"You did not. But some did."

"Halloween will be the next great feast we will have. And I was wondering if you would allow me to cook for you?"

"For me?"

"And for every hungry mouth at Hogwarts."

"I'm sure there's stuff already planned out..."

          It was Will who had jumped in.

          Did he believe that something unwise was about to be said? Or had already been?

          If Will indeed planned on censuring Hannibal, it was in Albus' best interests to sabotage his efforts. He needed to get Hannibal out of Will's protection if he wanted to endanger him enough to push Will to compromise.

"We have, but what is a plan without upheaval? You would like to cook for the Halloween feast, Hannibal?"

          Will's suspicious eyes met Albus' but Hannibal intervened first:

"There is nothing I currently want more."

"I will certainly not prevent you from involving yourself in Hogwarts' life and traditions. I will make sure to grant you full access to the kitchens, when the time comes."

          Hannibal's smile was as genuine as Albus thought it could be.

"Thank you."

"But that won't be before a month," Albus pointed out. "It is therefore not a better use of our current time."

"A feast must be planned. No... Orchestrated. It must be composed. It takes time."

"Well, I'm sure you'll find plenty of time outside this office," Will interrupted, his tone leaving no place for arguments.

          Something had displeased him in what Hannibal had said. What exactly, Albus couldn't tell.

"You also said, last year, that you would have liked to represent Hogwarts positively at an international level," Albus resumed.

"I did say that. But I figure, with what you have going on with Harry, and what Will and I have going on with our future, we could focus on a smaller scale."

"That sounds wise indeed. Will, no desire to get back into the Quidditch team? Professor McGonagall forwarded to me the list of this year's players and I noticed your name wasn't written."

"No. I'm not into this sport anyway. Never have been."

"Why did you join the team last year, then?"

"Cause Hannibal wanted me to."

"Why that?"

          Hannibal answered before Will could.

"Because he offers quite the sight, and I have to admit that I am of easy virtue when it comes to beauty."

          Will's eyes avoided Dumbledore with an added obstinacy fuelled by his obvious embarrassment. Albus couldn't deny his amusement at the sight of such a human reaction from the boy.

          That was why he had wanted to have Minerva by his side while meeting with Lady Murasaki. His friend seemed unable to unsee the boys' humanity. She was a needed balance to Lady Murasaki's darker tableau.

"Have you ever been able to find nourishment at a very sight, Professor?"

          Finally, Hannibal was joining the conversation, launching his indolent attacks as he used to do last year.

          Sadly, it wasn't the most anecdotal of topics. Albus needed to keep him away from that matter without letting him know where any of his weakest spots could possibly lay. Especially considering that Will had already been able to catch a glimpse of it, last year. Had he shared it with Hannibal? For some reason, Albus didn’t think so. And he was thankful for that.

          Sharing raw feelings had been useful in the past, with Will. But Hannibal couldn't be trusted with such knowledge.

"Is that what that Quidditch demand was about?" he simply asked without a second of delay

"I am guessing,” Hannibal said. “Nourishment is easy to find when one is hungry enough. Quidditch or something else, this year I won’t be picky."

"Could we change the topic?" Will interrupted. "I'm starting to feel like some piece of meat."

"That would be my last thought about you, Will," Hannibal said. "My sincerest apologies."

"What would you like to talk about?" Albus asked. "After all, these meetings are first and foremost about you and what preoccupies you."

          Will seemed to give the question some thoughts, his fingers drumming against the arms of his chair.

"Do we have any news about Bellatrix Lestrange?" he finally said. "That's what preoccupies me."

"No," Albus answered, keeping his frown to himself.

"She is back with Voldemort?" Will continued.

"As far as I'm aware, no one has spotted her by his side. However, he did not mention her absence."

"What's more plausible?" Will kept on asking. "That she is by his side, but he is hiding her away for some reason, or that she is not and he doesn't want her absence to be known?"

"Why are you so interested in that matter?"

"Cause I wanna know where she is."

          Now, that was an interesting topic if any.

"Why?" he simply asked.

"Cause I lost her, at the Ministry. She ran away. I wanna know where she is now."

"Why do you want to know?" he asked again.

"Cause I wanna make her pay," Will shrugged. "I can't if she's nowhere to be seen."

"Is it about vengeance?"

"It sure is."

          Albus knew perfectly well what needed to be avenged. Severus had told him that the horrific injuries Hannibal had sustained last year had been inflicted by Bellatrix Lestrange. She was known to be Voldemort's favourite torturer and it was easier to see her as the sole culprit for Hannibal's suffering, rather than taking into account Voldemort's equal responsibility.

          Hannibal, as for him, was not saying a word. He was looking at Will carefully. Not with caution or disapproval, but something strangely akin to admiration. Or was it fascination? The boy's face was always so hard to read with confidence.

"What would be the point of revenge?"

"Revenge doesn't have a point. It's just direct satisfaction. It feels good."

"Would it be satisfying to hurt Bellatrix Lestrange?"

"Oh, yes," Will nodded without hesitation, "very. So vivid I can easily picture it already."

"I don't think you will feel quite as fulfilled as you think you will."

"Doesn't matter. She hurt Hannibal, I want her to be hurt. An eye for an eye. Isn't that how the world works?"

"It doesn't have to."

          Albus looked at Hannibal again. He hadn't moved despite the mention of his name. He was still detailing Will with great care.

"What is your opinion on that?" Albus asked him directly.

"Will's claim is backed by History. Much more so than yours."

          Slowly, with a delay compared to his words, his eyes left Will and his whole focus was back on Dumbledore.

"We often associate the idea of an eye for an eye with the Book of Exodus. Many people wrongfully associate it with muggle religions. They are wrong."

"You want to bring the Lex Talionis into this?" Albus wondered, thinking he would cut Hannibal in his tracks by anticipating his rupture and help him refocus but, as often, Hannibal had dug much deeper.

"The first mention that we have of that idea is in the Code of Hammurabi, actually."

"You should know, you published a translation of it three years ago."

          Hannibal smiled at that sentence.

"You've been following my work even before our first meeting?"

"It has known how to catch my attention at times."

"Therefore, I am guessing I don't teach you anything by telling you that this code is much older than the Hebraic Bible. And the existence of such a text of law allows us to wonder if the ‘Eye for an Eye’ law is not just as old as civilization itself. Nothing disproves the hypothesis that, since they first invented justice, humanity invented retaliation."

"Was this walk down history lane meant to tell us that you wish Will could avenge you for what Bellatrix Lestrange has done to you?"

"No, it is not. I am merely pointing out that Will's claim about the world working this way bears more weight than your alternative claim."

"So, because that's how it is, that's how we should act?"

"How would you have us react?" Will asked. "What do you plan on doing to bring justice to Hannibal? Justice for the days of torture, the lost skin, and the broken bones?"

"Justice will be brought. One day or another."

"Are we talking Judgment Day?" Hannibal wondered, his eyes shining with joy.

"We are talking human laws."

          The disappointment was clear on Hannibal's features.

"Human laws are doing nothing for Hannibal, right now," Will pointed out.

"She first needs to be found."

"Are we gonna look for her?"

"First the Horcruxes. First Voldemort. He is more dangerous. Then, yes, her."

"What if we find her before?" Will asked.

"We will bring her to justice."

"I sure hope we will."

          Albus wasn't sure Will had truly let go of his seemingly deeply rooted thirst for revenge, but the topic had obviously reached its end.

"There are other matters that are much more worthy of your focus, Will."

"Yeah, I know. Voldemort. Got it."

"I think he meant friendship and the joy of schooling," Hannibal whispered to Will though he was still fixing Dumbledore in the eyes.

"Oh. That too, yeah. You should tell Harry, however. Did you know that he doesn't give much of a f... of a hoot about his OWL results cause he doesn't think he has a life past Voldemort? He may have nailed the whole 'power of friendship' thing but he's the one you should tell about the joy of schooling and all."

"I am aware that Harry is in a difficult place right now. He is bearing heavy concerns, concerns that shouldn't be on sixteen-years-old shoulders. But that would be a disservice than to lie and tell him his future is not irremediably intertwined with Voldemort's. However, I am sure he has his friends to remind him that he also has a life outside of his fights."

"You're talking about Hannibal and me? Or Hermione and Ron?"

"I am talking about anyone who considers themselves one of his friends. Does that include you?"

"Sure. Why not? We've been through some stuff together."

"Did you tell him about your early departure from Hogwarts?"

"Yeah. We did."

"And what did he say?"

"Got angry a bit."

"Anger is often the easiest of goodbyes," Hannibal commented. "Harry's anger was indicative of a strong affection for us."

"Or of a strong affection for what we represent."

"How cynical of you, Will."

"No, it's not. I think he likes us well enough. But his anger didn't hide sadness. It hid fear. We're worth more than just our capital of friendship."

          Albus could easily guess what someone like Hannibal could represent for Harry. The feeling of safety that came with standing next to power was a universal constant. However, Albus believed he had a good enough understanding of the situation to know that, currently, Will was a much more precious and essential ally than Hannibal. Not that he was too worried for he was convinced he had enough time to get from the Empath everything he needed against Voldemort. But Harry, in his position, couldn't have such a clear view on their near future and the loss of his two friends was but an insurmountable fragilization of their strengths.

"Have you comforted him on the matter?" he asked.

"With empty words?" Hannibal raised an eyebrow.

"Or meaningful ones. You said yourself you will help us for the months to come, and distance doesn't necessarily mean the end of a friendship."

"Harry was not afraid for our friendship," Will pointed out. "He was afraid of loneliness in the face of responsibility. I guess for him, now, there's no one that could share any blame if that were to come to it. I don't think he is really over last year and he is still wary of your fidelity for him, though he does not doubt his for you. He still fears you may ditch him at any moment like you did before."

          That was a fair criticism, Albus thought. He had had his reasons to act as he had acted last year. Reasons that proved themselves to be true in part. Still, he should have known better.

"His wound will not heal," Hannibal said, "considering your imminent death."

          Albus knew perfectly what Hannibal was referencing. But Will seemed to have no idea because he jolted at the words, his head snatching toward his boyfriend, his eyes wide open in shock and misunderstanding.

          Hannibal cleared it up quickly enough.

"Our Headmaster is dying. Infection. He could live of course. If he were to accept my help. But he won't."

          Slowly, Will went from Hannibal to Albus, his shock overcame, now simply surprised instead of nearly fearful.

"What do you mean, infection?"

"I suspect cutaneous contact with some cursed object. Cleverly but not sufficiently contained in his hand by Professor Snape. His spell won't last sadly, and the end of Professor Albus Dumbledore is upon us."

"You can do better?" Will asked his boyfriend. "Better than Snape?"

"I could heal instead of contain. But as I said, he is not interested."

          Will observed Albus with an air that could hardly be interpreted, but his frown was unmissable.

"Why?" he asked after a while.

"I have my reasons," Albus simply answered.

"What reasons? If it's cause you don't trust him, I can make sure he..."

"It has nothing to do with Hannibal."

"Then you just don't want anyone to heal you? You... You wanna die?"

"I am afraid you don't have all the elements to understand my situation, Will. One day, most certainly. For now, let's leave it at that. We are not here for that, are we?"

"We're here to talk about our week, we've done that already. This is more important."

"Are we here to talk about your week, though?" Albus asked, unwilling to give any ground.

"For what if not?"

"When I asked you why you resumed our interviews, I don't feel like you gave me a genuine answer."

"What point would there be to me lying?"

"We all know you are serving an agenda dutifully. What I am interested in is why you consider me to be an enemy of yours."

          Will dropped the former topic at once and leaned back on his chair, his eyes a shade darker. Defensively.

          Lady Murasaki had warned him about how dangerous Will could become when he was defensive.

          But he had to ask.

"What do you fear I may do against you?"

          Will remained silent for a second, before taking a deep breath and placing his arms away from himself, on the armrests of his chair.

          There, the back of his hand could brush over the back of Hannibal's hand.

"We just don't want to be separated," he finally said.

"Why would I separate you?" Albus asked.

"You won't," Hannibal answered. "You can't."

          And there it was. That Them, Lady Murasaki had talked about. At the first mention of it, both Will and Hannibal had fallen into place, their pace synchronizing at once. They didn't look at each other anymore. They didn't need to. They knew exactly where the other was standing, at any given time. They therefore only had to keep their eyes on their shared enemy. The enemy of that Them.

          Albus.

          And Albus knew there was nothing more he could do today.

          However, he did not consider it a loss.

          He had not learned anything new. But he had started to understand. And, with Will and Hannibal, understanding was more important than knowledge.

          There lied all their secrets. In how they worked together and against each other.

"I really thought you were gonna tell him."

"Tell him what?"

"You know. Your plans to kill him."

"You mean our plans."

          Will had wanted for them to debrief their appointment with Dumbledore but of course, to sit down in Will's room to exchange some words was not enough for Hannibal. Not by a long shot.

          The fresh air and the view on the lake were one thing. But the fruit tray, the assortment of melted chocolate, and the picnic blanket may have been bringing things a bit too far.

          But Hannibal was nothing if not too far – in many different directions – and Will considered it was fair enough. His boyfriend had not wanted to meet with Dumbledore in the first place, he had indulged for Will's sake, he had well deserved to have it his way for the aftermath.

"Still," Will resumed. "When you said he was gonna die, I thought you meant by your hands. Got quite the fright. I thought you'd just throw it all away and was ‘bout to jump him just like that, in the middle of his office."

"That would lack decorum. The fulfilment of urges is the privilege of primates. Human beings have to hold themselves to higher behavioural standards."

"Killing fast, bad murder; killing slow, good murder?"

"Answering a need, primitive; answering a desire, educated. Would you be kind enough to give me a strawberry please?"

"You need a strawberry or you desire a strawberry?"

          Despite his question, Will took a strawberry from the tray and dipped it into one of the ramekins filled with melted chocolate. He then brought it to Hannibal's mouth.

          His boyfriend was lying against him, his legs stretched out on the blanket, his book forgotten on his chest, his eyes detailing the shimmering surface of the lake. His hands settled on Will's knees, he didn't seem interested in feeding himself, despite the care he had obviously shown for the preparation of that outside snack.

"That would be for all the time I have fed you," he had simply said a few minutes earlier.

          Will didn't mind in the slightest and he wasn't sure he didn't like that casual proximity more than he liked their murderous complicity.

"Would you have stopped me?" Hannibal asked after having bitten the strawberry that Will had put in his mouth and having swallowed it. "If I had indulged in urges, would you have stopped me?"

          Will ate the piece of the strawberry that had remained between his fingers and gave the scenario a thought.

"No, I wouldn't," he finally said. "If you had started to attack him, it would have already been too late. Better him dead than surviving. But I wouldn't have been happy with you."

"You would have been disappointed?"

"Yeah."

          Hannibal looked up, and Will leaned forward to kiss his forehead.

"You got me worried, but I should have known better," he said, his lips still against the warm skin. "Of course, you wouldn't have been so rude."

          He still remembered his vivid fear and shock, when the words had left Hannibal's mouth and he had thought the whole tediously crafted Person Suit had been tossed away without any care.

"How long does he have left?" he asked.

"Most pessimistic diagnosis, a year. If Professor Snape was careful with his spell, a bit over that. If Professor Dumbledore comes around and asks my help, he can hope for a few added decades, if he goes easy on sugary treats."

"You'll help him if he asks?"

"Of course, I will. Why wouldn't I?"

"You wanna kill him. Seems a good reason to not save him."

"We want to kill him. And yes. Kill him. Not watch him die. If anything, his unwillingness to save himself adds yet another timer on our actions. I won't let fate beat us to it. Death is going to be delivered by our hands, we won't have it any other way."

          Will sensed his chest tightened at these words. He wasn't too enthusiastic at the idea of going after Dumbledore. He had no real desire to kill the man. But there was no point in opposing Hannibal. Not right now. Even though the mere thought of it was uneasy for him, he knew arguing against it would not be any better.

          Therefore, he dropped the matter. Absent-mindedly, he brought one of the two glasses of wine on their side to his lips and sipped the rich red liquid.

          Hannibal had slowly begun to educate his palates about wine two years ago. He still couldn't describe tastes or guess steps of the making, but now he was able to at least enjoy it.

"Where does this come from?" he asked.

"A sip for an answer."

          Will brought the glass to Hannibal’s lips and let him have a sip.

 "Hogsmeade?" he hazarded.

          Hannibal chuckled with a mixture of pride and vexation.

"No, Will. You wouldn't be able to find something quite as subtle in that village. This wine is from my personal making."

"Here? At Hogwarts?"

"I may have reorganized an isolated part of the forest into a private vineyard, during our first few weeks here. A couple of months after perfect ripeness, the bottles were ready, and I left them to age for nearly a year. It is a very young wine, but I hope you will recognize its nuanced character."

"It's very good," he answered.

          And it was. Here stopped his expert opinion, however.

"Where are the bottles?" he asked.

"I stocked them in one of the barrels in the Hufflepuff common room. Somehow no one ever checks them, so they are left undisturbed. Mind you, they are protected, but they didn't need it so far as we Hufflepuff are not known for our great curiosity."

"You still have some butterbeers?"

"A few, in case I need to buy some Gryffindor friendships. But I am not too fond of those poor sugary excuses for diluted alcohol."

          Will looked up with a long, deep breath. The sky was clear, and the sun was burning bright above their heads. It was probably one of their few last days of warmth before the cold season and it hadn't been a bad idea to spend it outside. Especially with all the extra work Will was doing in preparation for the NEWTs that had kept him hidden away in the Library during most of his free time.

          Though Hannibal was trying his best to make it more manageable, that added work was slowly drowning Will. He knew he didn't have the level, right now, for Seventh Year's classes and the speed of their pace was nearly debilitating. But he was motivated by despair alone, which was an excellent fuel. He knew Hannibal was fast. And ahead. And if he wanted to follow him, he needed to bust his ass on that race. Giving up felt too much like falling on the ground and watching Hannibal disappear in the distance. And Will couldn't even stomach the idea of going back to Hogwarts while Hannibal was starting his higher education. He had no other choice. He needed to keep up. Even if it meant sacrificing every waking hour.

          The hardest was to keep track of school. He was so deeply buried into the Seventh Year curriculum that he would often forget his classes and assignments. More than once, during the short time since the term had begun, he had had nothing to hand the teachers but vague apologies for works he hadn't done. Hannibal had asked him not to worry too much. They wouldn’t pass the usual exam at the end of the year anyway, and all that truly mattered was the NEWTs in May. Still, the disappointment in his teachers' eyes reminded him of his time at Ilvermorny.

          To the difference of one teacher. Who seemed continually amazed by him.

"I have a big assignment in Divination," he said after a long moment of silence. "I'd like to make some time to work on it."

"Of course. When is it due?"

"He didn't give any date yet. But that way, it will be done."

"Next weekend was supposed to be about Astronomy and options. You are already ahead, it won't slow you down to work on something else. And if it is an assignment you enjoy, it could even be a revitalizing break."

"We're working on Aurology. It's really interesting, actually."

"And let me guess, you are offensively good at it? To the point where any school would fight to have you? It sure comes at a surprise."

"Sarcasm looks ugly on you Hannibal."

"It does not. It looks charming."

"The hell if I’ll admit that. You’re cocky enough. Anyway. We're supposed to find a place where powerful magic has been performed. And write an essay on it for Firenze."

"At Hogwarts, there is no shortage of past magic."

"Yeah, but I thought I could go in the forest instead. I think that could interest Firenze more."

"Indeed. But do not worry too much about grades. They won't matter in the end."

"I know. Still. It's nice to not be a failure."

          Hannibal, who still had the back of his head against Will's chest raised his eyes to look at him.

"You are not a failure," he stated emotionlessly.

"No, I know. But..."

"Will," Hannibal interrupted him right away, a strange harshness in his voice and eyes. "You are not a failure. If the world is not perfectly tailored to you, then it is the world that is appallingly wrong."

"Didn't want to..."

"Stating otherwise is but a blatant insult to my tastes. And my sensitivity. You don't understand, Will. Your splendour is sickening. Sometimes, when I look at you, I can't help but be wounded by how perfect and meaningful you are. The hurt is real, and it takes no disrespect. Therefore, don't ever dare to say that you are anything less than absolute."

          To stop that strange, self-centred, and vexed pep talk, Will leaned forward and kissed Hannibal's mouth, preferring the wine on his lips to the honey of his words. Both were twisted and dangerous, but one of them was much more pleasant to him.

          Nonetheless, Hannibal's veneration for him always came at odds with how Will could experience the world around them. But Hannibal prevailed over the world and so did his sensitivity.

          Will tightened his embrace around his boyfriend and deepened their kiss, bathing in the maybe perilous yet oh so simple joy of being with each other.

"Hum, hum," a throat was cleared above them.

          Reluctantly, Will backed away from their kiss and looked up.

          McGonagall had approached them and was now standing a few feet away from their blanket, her eyes respectfully on the lake as to remain away from their affection.

          She really had a knack for finding them at the right time.

"Can we be of help?" Hannibal asked.

"Actually, I can. I wanted to talk to you two about the documents you need to fill for the N... Is this alcohol that you are drinking?!"

          Will didn't even dare to look at the glass by his side.

"No," he lied.

"Yes," his boyfriend admitted. "But as moderate in amount as it is excessive in quality. May I interest you in a glass, Professor?"

"Hannibal..." Will breathed. "I don't think she can be interested at all."

          Indeed, she couldn't, as, less than two minutes later, they found themselves in McGonagall office along with Sprout who had been urged to come to deal with that apparently overwhelming problem.

          Hannibal and Will were standing in front of the two teachers, the desk marking the separation between those with authority and those without it. At least symbolically.

          McGonagall had always been a stern teacher but, right now, nothing but sternness could be read on her old face. As for Sprout, it was strange to see something akin to reprobation on her usually so kind features.

"To bring alcohol, on school grounds!" McGonagall choked on her own angered disbelief. "And drink it in broad daylight? Have you no decency?"

          Of all the crimes he had committed, Will would have never figured that this one would be the one making anyone doubt his decency.

"How did you get the alcohol? Is that an older student who gave it to you?" Sprout asked.

"I made it," Hannibal said.

          Of course, he wouldn't let anyone get credits for his oeuvres. Will had learned very early that they would never be able to get away from their murders by blaming them on someone else. Hannibal's ego would never take it.

"You made it?"

"Therefore," Will pointed out, "he didn't bring anything on school ground. It was already there."

"Well," Hannibal gave it a thought, "I brought it to life. Therefore, I guess I did bring something."

"You're not helping me, here, Hannibal. Nor yourself."

"That's enough."

          McGonagall took back control over the conversation, though she didn't seem any less angry.

"First promiscuity, now alcohol..."

"Minerva," Sprout interrupted with reprobation. "You can't say they are being promiscuous simply because..."

"I say that because of what they do in the locker room, Pomona."

"Oh..."

          For a second, Sprout seemed at loss for words and reactions, and she finally fell silent.

          Will was not naive enough to think the teachers were uneasy when it came to sexuality. But he knew they were as soon as that sexuality was their students'.

"I understand," McGonagall resumed, calmer though still as stern. "You may not believe it but I do. You want to grow up faster. You are at an age where everything forbidden is exciting and a display of maturity. But it is neither. If these natural matters of life are forbidden, it is because they can be dangerous at your age."

          Hannibal turned toward Will with a frown.

"Strange. I don't remember ever hurting myself while being promiscuous with you."

          Will made sure to meet no eyes and he kept his resolutely to the floor. He wasn't far from sharing Hannibal's stand, however. He had no desire to have this conversation, but on the other hand, it was hard to take it seriously as they were plotting murders every Thursdays.

"You may not realize it, yet," Sprout backed her colleague. "But with these matters, it is always preferable to wait. Always."

"What for? Marriage?"

"Adulthood," McGonagall answered sternly. "We are not out to force a bigoted moral on you. But rules have reasons to be there."

"Is it really to protect us?" Hannibal asked again. "Or is it to protect your idea of us?"

"Drinking alcohol is a danger to your health," Sprout pointed out. "You should know that, Mr Lecter."

"I know that. The same way that I know it is the dose that makes the poison. Do not worry, I closely monitor our intake."

"Oh but we will closely monitor it as well," McGonagall huffed. "Not even a droplet before you turn seventeen, and never on school grounds. We will make sure of that. I can't talk for you, Mr Lecter, but Mr Graham, I want on my desk, before the end of the weekend, an eight feet long essay on the dangers of alcohol. And I will be sending to your father an explanation of the event."

          Will couldn't help but mentally point out that he didn't have to write a single essay about the murder of Dolarhyde. The school system had its crimes in order.

          Hannibal must have thought the same because he seemed weirdly amused

"The same will go for you, Mr Lecter," Sprout said. "You are such a bright young man, I expect much better from you."

"I will work on delivering," he simply said.

 "I hope so," she said.

"And I hope we won't have any new incident of that sort," McGonagall finished. "You may go and take some time to think about your behaviour."

"We will. Good afternoon, Professor Sprout, Professor McGonagall."

          They exited the office and closed the door behind them. They waited to be three corridors away before daring to meet eyes.

          Hannibal's laughter was already an inch away from his lips.

"I wonder if the essay would have been ten feet long instead of eight, if they had known with what I fertilized the grape."

"With whom you mean? Yeah. Probably ten feet. If not twelve."

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 9

The Order of Nature

          A long time ago, in the midst of a French summer, and as they were resting at the centre of a shaded clearing, Hannibal had taken Will's head on his lap and had whispered to him the words that a muggle poet had mumbled a century and a half ago.

          These words had echoed with limpidity in that clearing, but with limpidity only.

          Now that Will was walking alone in the middle of the titanic trees of the Forbidden Forest, the words echoed in his memory with depth.

          In Nature's temple, living columns rise,

          Which oftentimes give tongue to words subdued,

          And Man traverses this symbolic wood,

          Which looks at him with half familiar eyes,

          Like lingering echoes, which afar confound

          Themselves in deep and sombre unity,

          As vast as Night, and like transplendency,

          The scents and colours to each other respond.

          And scents there are, like infant's flesh as chaste,

          As sweet as oboes, and as meadows fair,

          And others, proud, corrupted, rich and vast,

          Which have the expansion of infinity,

          Like amber, musk and frankincense and myrrh,

          That sing the soul's and senses' ecstasy.*

          As his legs moved forward into the forest, Will's mind couldn't help but look back on those words of summer with a renewed understanding. This poem had placed the sensitive mind as the bridge between nature and humanity, and the first explorer of the cabalistic mysteries.

          Will certainly felt like an explorer, as his Empathy was guiding him among the living columns of wood.

          He had been right to think of the Forbidden Forest for Firenze's assignment. It was pulsing with magic running through the soil, a gigantic heart of sort beating its eternal life away, somewhere underneath Will's feet.

          He had been there, once. As he had carried Hannibal’s dying body through that natural enemy. At that time, exhausted and bruised, they hadn't cared much for Empathy.

          But now, he was walking it as an ally – at least, he hoped – willing to listen and learn, as he was following the flows he could guess around him.

          He would have liked to find Hannibal's secret garden. He was sure there was more to see than vineyards there. However, he wasn't certain writing an assignment about an illegal alcohol making enterprise was that clever. Though he didn't think Firenze would truly mind.

          In any case, he couldn't really navigate this forest with an agenda. There was something... possessive among these trees. Something that was making everything their own by a rightful act of revendication. What happened on that soil belonged to the Forest. Their former creator meaningless and dispossessed.

          Hannibal was nowhere to be felt around Will. Everything he may have done or casted here, now the propriety of the Forest. His deadly misdeed against Umbridge? Erased. His certainly luxuriant garden? Offered.

          Maybe Will would stumble upon it, but that wouldn't be while searching for his friend. Instead, he looked for power. That was, after all, where Hannibal could often be found. At the source of powers, of all kinds and all fashions.

          Will was deep enough into the forest to be unable to see the sky or the horizon. Nothing but trees and more trees around. Sometimes roots as high as him were forcing him to find a more meandering path to walk around them. He didn't know for how long he had been walking and he had no idea what time of the day it now was. Not that it mattered much. Time was not on his mind currently. Did it even have the same meaning here?

          As a first approach, Will had walked aimlessly. He had just let his mind stroll along his side and had let hazard guide his steps. Now, he was willing to serve the interest that had first brought him to the forest.

          Place of power.

          Hannibal's garden maybe?

          He didn't know for sure, but he could feel something whispering to him. Something luring his feet. All the pulses of magic through the soil seemed attracted to it, as if submitted to a centripetal force too strong to allow them to avoid an ineluctable crash into that source of power. Which acted to the rest of the occult energies both as an origin and an end.

          Will, just like the pulses of magic, was walking toward it. The forest looked like it was drowned in an endless night. He knew it was the day, yet the obscurity was so dense, the lights so dimmed, it was hard to believe it. The foliage was high above Will's head, like a distant black sky, creating large empty spaces between the trunks. The ground was invisible under a carpet of thick white mist swirling lazily around Will's legs. He had made sure so far to stay away from the territory of the centaurs and Hannibal had indicated to him where the nest of the Acromantulas could be found, therefore he had not met any unkind soul as of yet. However, as he was coming closer and closer to the centre, he realized that his solitude now had less to do with caution and more to do with lack of threats.

          As if every inhabitant of the forest had favoured places further away from the centre of magic, the branches and leaves weren't whistling with life anymore. Apart from the trees themselves and the bugs crawling under the mist, there was nothing breathing here, Will the only beast daring enough to continue on this path.

          Or disrespectful enough? They often ended up being one and the same.

          It was very possible, if he was indeed walking toward Hannibal's garden, that some spell had been casted to keep the world at arm's length.

          However, Will couldn't help the creeping thought in the back of his mind that he was getting closer and closer to the beating heart of the forest.

          At the moment he reached his destination, he knew it had nothing to do with Hannibal. It was too ancient, too buried and... too powerful?

          Possibly.

          The place of power Will had tracked presented itself as a clearing in the middle of that night of foliage and roots. Though the trunks were not less dense than anywhere else, there were no frills to obstruct the empty spaces, no branches and no leaves to block the sight, creating a round room in that natural temple. It was still impossible to see the sky, however the light was pouring from above and, reflected on the white mist, it was diffused in an intense halo bathing the clearing with an unreal brightness that could only blind the creatures that had had to cross the night to find this place.

          Will continued to walk toward it, a hand on his forehead to protect his eyes. In the middle of the clearing, there was a large rock, higher than an average human, yet strangely eroded on one side to create a natural seat with regalian standing. Ivy had climbed the stone and had covered the back of the throne with its sinuous and hypnotic patterns, moss had grown at the bottom to create a soft velvet pillow, flowers had blossomed on the armrests like shiny gems inlaid in gold.

          This royal chair called the soul bearing witness of its splendour to come closer and dare to sit on it. Yet Will was no fool. He had experience in alluring yet lethal entities and knew how to resist them. Partially only, however. And even though he didn't step any closer, he did close his eyes and dwell on the place of power.

          The mirrors of his mind reflected the world around with ease and simplicity. They were used to it, but even then, the chorus of magic was so loud around him that it would have been harder to resist it than to join it as yet another voice.

          Will effortlessly let its notes echo in his brain.

          Will is tall and vast. And deep.

          He does not know his age, but he feels as old as eternity, yet still in his very youth.

          He is scattered and thin, even though he grows every day. He feels like he will never reach its true height, but he has no other choice than to be patient.

          His roots are already buried too deep for him to rip them off the earth and make a run for it.

          It does not mean he cannot move. Simply that his motions are contained within himself.

          Will is rooted and still, but it is a whole world that is living and multiplying inside his belly.

          Sometimes, impolite souls try to violate that inner world.

          Will is the victim of an infection. Fungus growing on his periphery.

          Human Swarm drinking the water of his ponds, taking the stone of his soil, stealing his flowers and bugs, his own children.

          Will hates them. But he has no means of defence. His arms are too heavy to move, his teeth too young to bite. He can do nothing but endure.

          He can feel nothing but those souls stumping his grass with their foreign feet, and he can do nothing but be angry in silence.

          But today, someone is coming.

          Someone other.

          Someone human, but also someone more. Or maybe simply different.

          It is a child, as young as Will is.

          He wears black and green robes. Black like the night around Will's heart. Green like the moss on Will's skin.

          Something about him is different.

          This one human child speaks. To Will.

          Something in him sings and joins what sings in Will.

          In a communion of magic, they understand each other.

          Merlin. The boy says his name.

          Will is not quite sure he knows what a name is. He does not need one, no one calls him.

          The boy says everything has a name. Some are simply harder to remember.

          Will is not certain about that. But the dreamy light in the boy's eyes is too precious to be darkened. Will won't say his truth on that matter.

          Days after days, the boy comes back.

          He says he likes Will more than his swarm of humans.

          Will reciprocate the feeling.

          The boy is not his child. He is not one of his bugs and flowers and rare birds.

          The boy is his friend.

          And sometimes, Will weeps for not being able to sit down by his side and hold his hand.

          But at least, they talk. All day, every day.

          And the same way Will weeps for not being the size of the boy, the boy weeps for not being the size of Will.

          Will tries to tell the boy that he is better off this way. That beauty can be found in motion. But the boy doesn't believe him.

          So, Will shares his own suffering too. His powerlessness. His submission to human violations. No one can envy that, for sure.

          But the boy doesn't feel sympathy. He feels anger. Outrage even.

          From that day, the boy dedicates himself to Will’s protection. He infuses his magic into the soil to nourish Will's roots, makes it bead up Will's skin.

          The boy still has dreamy eyes, but he has a wicked nature, just like Will has flowers and thorns. That wicked nature stains Will's foliage. Embellish them, really.

          Fed by the boy's magic, Will's bugs multiply and grow darts. The flesh of his fruits and mushrooms turns sour and deadly. His dew stagnates in deceitful clouds of mist. His roots emerge from the ground and build unsolvable mazes. His brambles become sentient and blood-thirsty. His darkness spread and lure teethed and clawed children who find in it a new home.

          And Will cries with happiness.

          Never has he seen such beauty before. And now, this beauty is all his. And the Swarm of Humans finally understands they are not welcomed in Will's belly.

          But Will continues to welcome the boy now a man.

          He builds for him a throne of splendour right next to his heart, so that they can continue to speak together.

          They cannot hold hands, but it is as close as they can get, and the man keeps coming back.

          Will is his friend and has become his home. Sometimes, he leaves, for his human Swarm, for his cities and his societies. But he always swears to come back.

          Until the day he does not.

          Will knows the boy now man is running to his end. That is what happens when one is not still. Ends arrive faster.

          They met at the same age, but they only shared it for a blink. Then the boy has grown old while Will has remained young.

          Will is aware of Merlin's last breath the second it is expelled from already cold lungs.

          The wicked magic running through his soil mourn the end of its creator.

          Will does not mind.

          He knows death, and he knows life. He hosts them both in his belly. Death is not the end of friendship.

          So he waits.

          For his friends to come back to him.

          As has been promised.

          He waits and his trunks thicken, his foliage densifies.

          Time passes.

          And Will finally understands.

          The Swarm is not giving his friend back.

          It is keeping the body away from Will's waiting arms.

          Never again will Will see Merlin.

          So Will screams.

          He yells and roars and shouts.

          His roots burnt by grief, his children maddened by their parent's fury, he wants blood and suffering.

          He sends every toxic offering that his Friend has given him against the Swarm. He raises his new-borns to attack and take and avenge. He crashes his beautiful claws against the home of the Swarm. A home made of stolen stones. Sometimes, he is able to snatch a girl or a boy from it. As young as his Friend has been. And, blinded by grief and wrath, Will drags them into his belly and shred them to pieces.

          But his Friend is not given back.

          The Swarm continues to proliferate. It builds walls to defend itself. It casts protection to keep Will's children at bay.

          They are not violating his belly anymore, but they are not giving his Friend back.

          And Will is gangrened by madness.

          A gasp in the silence of the Forbidden Forest.

          Will had seen enough. He tried to step away, breath some fresh air but clawed hands grabbed his shoulders and brought him back.

          The story wasn't over.

          Will is gangrened by madness.

          And the Swarm of Humans doesn't enter him anymore.

          Will is alone again. With his grief and his thirsty children.

          Until today.

          For today, someone is coming.

          Someone other.

          Someone human, but also someone more. Or maybe simply different.

          It is a child, younger than Will is.

          He wears black and red robes. Black like the pain around Will's heart. Red like the blood Will's skin is out for.

          Something about him is different.

          This one human child speaks. To Will.

          Something in him sings.

          A familiar song.

          A song that cannot be forgotten.

          And Will, who has only been chanting despair since the loss of his friend, changes his lyrics to join the chant.

          In a communion of magic, they understand each other.

          Albus. The boy says his name.

          Albus is not like Merlin.

          His song is beautiful, but he doesn't hear as well. Will can't talk to him like he used to talk to the other boy.

          Will is different too. He is not who he used to be.

          He is older. And colder. He is grieving and dangerous. He does not need a new friend, he wants the old one back.

          But the new boy is sensitive. He cannot hear well, but he feels accurately. And what Merlin had in wickedness, he has it in volition.

          He is even younger than Merlin was when they met, but he is just as potent. It takes him time to understand Will's grief, using his reason in lieu of his senses. But he finally understands its origin.

          Albus is still a boy, the day he sits on Will's moss and nourish Will's soil with his magic.

          At first, Will does not care.

          He has enough power. He does not need more of it.

          But he quickly understands that it is not what the new boy has in mind.

          Merlin was wicked.

          Albus is devious.

          He understands that the second he senses his roots expand and dig, fed by that empowering magic.

          His roots grow and grow, they run through the soil and expand. One of them becomes the new boy's favourite, and even in the darkness of the sunless ground, it shines with strength and health.

          The new boy keeps coming back.

          Day after day.

          And day after day, he feeds that one root, and guides it among the dust. Quickly enough, the root has left Will's periphery. It has expanded beyond the home of the Swarm of Humans. Beyond the Great Lake. Beyond any land Will has seen and, soon, beyond any land Will could have guessed.

          Each day the boy comes, sits and grow the root.

          Will is fascinated though he does not understand at first.

          Albus is still a boy when Will understands at last.

          He is still a boy when Will's root reaches a human tomb, buried under foreign land, far, far away from here. An ocean away.

          He understands when, after digging through the hard stone, Will's root buries itself into worm food.

          That is when he understands.

          That, finally, Will is able to hold his Friend's hand.

          And he weeps again, this time with joy and relief.

          His root grows around the decayed corpse and builds for it a shroud of flowers and thorns, dreamy and wicked.

          And, at last, Merlin is back into Will's arms.

          The next day, when Albus comes back, Will lets him sit on the throne near is heart.

          At peace, Will quietens his child, call his brambles home.

          He knows Albus is no part of him. The boy likes his Swarm too much. And, in his name, Will will leave the Swarm alone, keeping Merlin's gift solely for his belly.

          Will was always meant to be a self-contained world, after all.

          And his story will end as it has begun.

          Will breathed at last. The suffocating grief fading away. Damn, he hated sad stories: even happy endings had trouble overcoming the sorrow. However, he couldn't help but feel drowned back in the forest. Something was missing.

          An epilogue?

          Will is at peace.

          Reunited with his Friend.

          And now, they can both grow old together. Quietly.

          But, among their days, which all look like each other, there is one that is slightly different.

          Because today, someone is coming.

          Someone other.

          Someone barely human. Less than human. Or maybe simply different.

          It is a child, younger than Will is.

          He wears black and yellow robes. Black like the nest of Will's children. Yellow like the sunlight pouring around Will's healed heart.

          Everything about him is different.

          This one barely human child speaks. Not to Will however.

          No.

          Something in him sings, yes, but it is not a chorus Will can join.

          He does not know about power, and he does not know about reason, but this boy's song is more beautiful than anything Will has ever heard.

          Yet, he cannot join.

          He cannot even understand.

          The boy sings in another language. A language that cannot be spoken by nature.

          Will knows that if he tries to mimic the words, they will burn his foliage and exsanguinate his seams.

          What Merlin had in wickedness.

          What Albus has in volution.

          That boy has it in perversion.

          Will doesn't hate the boy. He has birthed many poisonous children after all. Death and life are the same in Will's belly.

          But he cannot join the song.

          And the boy doesn't listen. He doesn't have the clarity of mind Merlin and Albus had. His thoughts are misty and convoluted. Inefficient in many ways.

          Will likes to watch him.

          The boy meets Will's children with appreciation.

          He offers seeds to Will's soil and waters it. Sacrifice humans to fertilize it.

          He even infuses the ground with his own magic.

          Will drinks it all.

          It is not as empowering as Merlin's or Albus' but it is pleasant nonetheless. It adds to Will's strengths.

          Will likes it and likes him.

          But he knows that boy will never sit on the throne near his heart. He is no Albus and he is no Merlin.

          He is no Friend, merely a perverting passer-by.

          Entertaining, but meaningless.

          This time, Will stepped away for good.

          He knew the next boy entering the forest would be himself, and he had no desire for endless spiritual mises-en-abyme that would surely fry his brain in an instant. It was no good to reflect oneself through someone else's mind.

          It was sickening and painful in the worst kind of way. He had learned this lesson the hard way that one night at Ilvermorny when he had tried to dwell into Hannibal to protect himself from the mencic hypnosis under which his friend would always place him when he wanted to play with his mind.

          Will had reflected Hannibal's mind which itself was already inside Will's brain and never had they experienced such head-crushing agony, like nails hammered out of the brain, right through the skull.

          Maybe Hannibal had enjoyed it, masochistic that he was when it came to his – at that point, future – boyfriend, but Will had promised himself he would never live through that again. If Hannibal was ever to try again his mind magic on him against his consent, Will would simply punch him in the face. Much more efficient, much more satisfying, and painful only to the one who deserved it.

          Still a bit lost after such a long dwelling but greatly motivated to not fall back into it, Will let himself stumble to the nearest tree and sit on the grass, exhausted.

          He now had a good understanding of the Forest, and he knew it would love him. It was probably already the case, as it had kept his poisonous children away from Will's path.

          Will was about certain he could sit on that throne, if he wanted to. Yet he sat on the ground.

          He was angry at the Forest. Insulted maybe.

          It hadn't recognized Hannibal's splendour. It had dismissed it like a passing sparkle. It had belittled it under the shadow of Dumbledore and Merlin. It had merged his offering of magic with the common and the ordinary, had lost it among its roots as if it was no better than added water to an ocean.

          Will couldn't stomach such blasphemy. He wasn't as sensitive to respect as Hannibal, yet he hated the thoughts the Forest had had on his soulmate.

          Will looked at the tall, silent trees towering above him. He wouldn’t sit among them, on this throne of friendship.

"You'll have to apologize first," he said with resentment to the foliage. "Or learn from your mistakes."

          The month of September had flown by in a blink. Before anyone could notice, the sky had covered itself in clouds, the sun rays had been changed into warm rains. Every student had settled into the rhythm of the castle, between study and freedom, and the summer had faded in the distance after having been too mistreated by the autumn.

          October had brought with it its red colours and its gloomy afternoon turning so quickly into nights it was difficult to tell them apart. The first Quidditch games were upon them, and it wasn't rare to see players, covered in mud and bruises, climbing the stairs after an exhausting practice session. The ghosts were haunting the corridors with their grim halo and the castle was preparing itself for the festivities that would take place at the end of the month, everyone excited for the first Hogsmeade trip that would come soon enough.

          However, deprived of Hagrid, his giant pumpkins and his decorations for the Great Hall, most of the older students were slightly worried for the Halloween feast that was only three weeks away.

          Neville Longbottom was not worried per say. At least, not about that. He had other reasons to be worried, for example the increasing difficulty of his classes, the constant threat over his grandmother's head, or the forces of Voldemort growing every day. But Halloween? Not so much. He learned nonetheless about it merely a week into October, despite the fact that he was one of the least bothered.

          That day, he was in one of the abandoned classrooms of the fourth floor, practicing for Monday's Defence class.

          Professor Murasaki was a brilliant teacher, and she was empowering her students in ways her predecessors had not been able to. With her as a mentor, Neville really felt like they were progressing and becoming better fighters by each class. She was not so focused on spells. She would teach them a handful of them, mostly spells that Harry had showed them before for the DA, but it was obvious she didn't believe there lied the true point of her lessons. Instead, she seemed completely dedicated to the training of their pace and dexterity. She was multiplying exercises meant to test their speed and reactivity and she was making her students work hard in embedding in their body ready-to-serve reflexes of both defence and attack.

          As a Professor, Murasaki was adored by most. In her class, they could practice magic freely and she was not one to give assignments. She would never check if her reading instructions were followed and would never take points away for stupid mistakes or bad languages. She was able to let them have fun with their wand and magic while making them feel trusted and respected. That was the reason why Neville was taking Defence Against the Dark Arts more seriously than any other class. Each time Professor Murasaki would mention a book or a paper that could give them knowledge, Neville would be the first to borrow it from the Library, beating Hermione to it. Most often than not, he would spend his free time practicing the spells seen in class and trying to reproduce the exercise. With Herbology, Defence was the only subject where Neville didn't feel like a clumsy idiot, and he desired few things more than he desired to be up to the positive opinion Professor Murasaki had of them.

          That was why he had immediately asked to join his friends when he had overheard that they were putting extra work into it. Harry, Ron and Hermione had agreed easily enough. Not long after, Ginny had jumped on the occasion as well, and had shown great enthusiasm at the perspectives of working on her already advanced skills. They all shared the same opinion on Professor Murasaki, and all knew the importance of working harder on that subject than on any other. If they were to forget, the students gradually leaving Hogwarts, the news of death and disappearance, the repeated absences of the Headmaster were as many reminders to motivate them to commit themselves fully to that class.

          That was what Neville Longbottom was doing in the abandoned classroom of the Fourth Floor, with Ron, Hermione, Harry, Ginny and even Will who had joined them today.

          Focused and ready, his eyes were following the growing halo of light that was bouncing from one shield to the next. It was the first exercise they had learned, but it still felt relevant and a good judge of their progress.

          The first time he had tried, Neville had been unable to cast even one shield in time to prevent the orb from shattering. Now, he could usually follow for three to four rounds before the spell was too fast for him to catch up. Every added round was a personal victory for him.

          Harry, just as focused, was able to remain ahead of the halo of light, his shield apparently always ready to go. Hermione was just as fast, her lips tight, barely mumbling the spell. Will, Ron, Ginny and Neville were a bit behind, but the four of them would progress every day, growing not only their strength but also their confidence for the fights to come.

          This time around, as the halo was bouncing and bouncing in what seemed to come close to their personal record, it was Ron's delay of half a second that put an end to their session.

"Damn! I was so ready for it!"

"You were," Harry nodded. "You just didn't have the time to pronounce the spell. The faster it will get, the earlier you will have to start saying the words."

"Hannibal said it was a way to teach us nonverbal magic," Hermione said. "Maybe we should try that rather than time our words."

"Easier said than done," Ginny sighed. "Still no progress in that department."

"I'm sure it will come," Neville shrugged. "In due time."

          It was only the beginning of their session, so he didn't put his wand away, but it was obvious Ron needed a break, therefore he straightened up and took a deep breath.

"Where's Hannibal, by the way?" Neville asked. "He can't join us?"

          Hannibal had not once joined their practice session. He didn't seem to need it anyway, and he wasn't too enthusiastic about Defence as a whole. Neville remembered what Professor Murasaki had said at the beginning of the term, and he knew they were related, but Hannibal was more silent and discreet in this class than in any other. Both the teacher and the student seemed dedicated to ignoring each other, to the point of not acknowledging the other's existence.

          Yet, more than once, Neville had caught Hannibal's eyes lingering on his relative, a frown betraying some deep thoughts or concerns. And even Professor Murasaki, no matter how distant and detached she seemed, would often turn toward Hannibal when he wasn't looking. The few times they were to exchange gazes, there was something heavy between them, and loud, that always embarrassed Neville as if he was watching something deeply wrong and intimate he should have never been the witness of.

          Yet, as someone who had been schooled by the teacher, Hannibal was the best advisor they could hope for to make progress. Not that it was even the main reason for wishing his presence. Neville had to admit he would have liked it if the group that had been by his side in the Ministry could have been reunited again.

          After the Battle of the Atrium, they had all gotten back to Hogwarts, and, if Ron, Hermione and Harry had had each other, and Hannibal and Will had rarely been seen apart, Neville had been left alone to deal with his fears and questions. He knew they were all his friends, but he also knew he wasn't part of the core group. And though he wasn't jealous, he couldn't help but feel that he had to fight extra hard to keep his place in the events to come.

          Therefore, Neville had joined this little gathering here, a parody of the DA, and had made sure they had invited Hannibal to join them several times, to no avail so far.

"No, he can't," Will said. "He's sorry about that."

"He seems awfully busy, lately," Hermione said. "Even more so than usual."

"Don't tell me about it," Will said with a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"What?" Neville frowned, "Something's happening?"

"What's happening is that I can barely get a hold of him these days. We see each other for studying, and that's about all."

          Neville had learned by Ginny that both Will and Hannibal were planning on leaving school early if they could manage to pass their NEWTs before the end of the year. Neville was not too sure what to think about it. He was sad and disappointed by their departure, and hoped they could have stayed longer, but he wasn't as affected by it as Hermione, Ron and Harry, as Will, Hannibal and he had never taken the time to truly bond together. However, he was still happy to see them thrive and genuinely hoped the two boys would be able to achieve the goal they had set for themselves.

"It's because of his work at the Hospital Wing?" Ron asked. "It was already taking him so much time last year.”

"If only," Will sighed. "But no. It's that damn feast."

"What damn feast?" Harry repeated.

"The Halloween feast."

"What does Hannibal have to do with it?"

"Well, he asked to cook for it. Be in charge of the menu and all."

          Neville was delighted by the news. He still remembered the dinner Will and Hannibal had cooked during the weekend of the OWL exams and it was still to this day the best meal Neville had ever been able to enjoy.

"He is already preparing it?" Harry didn't understand. "But it's in, like, three weeks or something."

"I know. But he talked to Sprout, and, one thing led to another, next thing I knew, he is in charge of the whole evening. Like decorations and stuff. He is taking it very seriously. I asked him to chill a bit, but he said that, and I quote, ‘reducing a feast to the meal would be like reducing life to flesh’. Anyway. End result, he is doing it all on his own and we don't have a moment together."

          Will had summarized the situation with that characteristic air he had when he was truly done with dealing with Hannibal's antics. Neville couldn't help but think the two of them were made for each other. It was made obvious by the fondness there was behind Will's exhaustion. Neville could only wish that, one day, the tiredness most people had when it came to him, was tinted with half the love Will had for the source of his fatigue.

          He knew it would not happen, however. No, when it came to him, people were just tired.

"Why doesn't he ask for help?" Neville wondered.

"Hannibal? Ask for help?"

          Yes, Neville could see his unelaborated point.

"And no one offered to help?" Hermione asked.

"With Hagrid gone, and the Headmaster mostly busy elsewhere, I think everyone's relieved that they don't have to deal with this mess."

"What about us?" Neville asked.

"You what?"

"Well, we could help him, couldn't we? Even if it's just to free him a bit earlier for a day or two, it's worth it, isn't it?"

"I don't think there's much you can do to help him."

"Surely there is," Harry backed Neville's ideas. "There must be small tasks we can do to alleviate his load."

"Last year, McGonagall makes Hermione and I help teachers a lot with Christmas decoration," Ron reminded them. "We've got experience. I swear I can cut paper garlands in my sleep."

"Let's do that," Harry decided for them all. "Let's find Hannibal and help him out. I'm sure he'll be happy to have us offer him assistant."

          Will doubted those words, Neville could say judging by his face alone, yet he ended up shrugging.

"You know what? That's actually a good idea. I'm sure your help will be welcomed."

          With that new aim in mind, they decided to put an end to their training session. Neville wasn't too sad. Even if they didn't train, it was still time spent with his friends and that was good enough in his book. He slipped his wand in his pocket, picked up his bag from the floor and followed the other Gryffindors out of the room.

"Where is he?" Harry asked, unsure where to go.

"Sprout let him have one of the study rooms, the ones that lead to the Middle Courtyard. You know the ones."

"Yep."

          They all began to make their way to the ground floor, where the different Courtyards could be found.

"I was thinking," Ron said, "the Hogsmeade excursion trip is in a week or so, isn't it?"

"Yes," Neville nodded.

          He had seen the announcement on the board this morning.

"You guys will finally be able to go?" Ron continued. "You're not grounded anymore, right?"

"We're not," Will confirmed.

"Great," Harry exclaimed. "You'll see, going there legally is even better than sneaking out. I'd know. I've done both too."

"You went there last year?" Neville frowned.

          He knew both Hannibal and Will had been forbidden by Dumbledore to leave the school ground during the excursion day. It was enough of a harsh punishment to entertain several discussions between Dean, Lavender, and him.

"Briefly," Will shrugged innocently.

"You liked it?" Ginny asked.

"Debatable. Great start, mitigated end."

"Sorry," Harry said at once, an expression of embarrassment on his face. "I didn't mean to... I didn't think it through."

"That's fine," Will simply said. “Don’t worry.”

"What... what is it?" Neville asked, not understanding Harry's sudden apology. "How did it end?"

"We don't have to talk about it," Hermione said, apparently in the know too.

          Of course. Harry, Ron, and Hermione always seemed in the know about everything in this school.

"That bad?" Ginny frowned. "What the hell did you do for an Hogsmeade trip to end so badly?"

"Got attacked by Death Eaters and were brought to Voldemort, who sequestered me and tortured Hannibal for a week or so. So yeah. I'd say pretty debatable whether or not we had a blast of a time."

          Neville and Ginny stopped right in the middle of the stairs. Both incapable of giving a meaning to the words they had just heard.

"Sorry, what?" Ginny eloquently summarized Neville's thought.

          Will continued to walk down the stairs for a couple of steps before realizing they had stopped.

"What I said," he simply repeated.

"When the hell did that happen?"

"Before Easter break," Ron answered. "They were gone for a week, and then the whole break."

"I thought a friend of your aunt had passed away," Neville said. “That’s what Parvati said Ernie had told her.

"Yeah, that was a fat lie. It was to keep Umbridge and the Ministry away from it."

"But how... how did you get out?" Ginny asked, as livid as if the events were happening as she was speaking.

"It's complicated, and really, I'd rather not go through the tedious task of telling the whole story all over again. Done that enough. Let's just say that, in fine, I blew up the Malfoy Manor and that gave us enough time for Hannibal to apparate us in the Great Lake. From there, Harry, Hermione and Ron helped us back into the castle."

          Ginny and Neville didn't move, still unable to wrap their head around what they had just heard. Sequestration and torture were not words they wished to give a meaning to, when it came to their friends. To people their age.

          For Neville, those words meant something else.

          It meant mute parents, big eyes on skeletal face and candy wrappers for Christmas.

          He distinctly felt his throat dry, as his chest tighten painfully around his heart. There was something stale in the air. Something smelling of despair and hospital, as Neville’s sight blurred and darkened.

          It took him all his mental strength to keep his thoughts at bay, and not transpose Will and Hannibal’s bodies on his parents’ bed.

"Don't look at me so weird," Will said to both him and Ginny. "It was a long time ago. It's over now. No need to cry about it. Hannibal has very negligible physical sequelae, and Voldemort didn't get to use my power. The Malfoys lost their home, and a few Death Eaters didn't make it. That's a win in my book."

          Yet, Neville didn't think he would ever want that kind of win.

          For a second, he briefly wondered if Will would still have the same opinion if Hannibal were to offer him candy wrappers for Christmas.

          And Nevill hated himself for that thought.

"Will..." Ginny said, struggling to find impactful words. "I'm very sorry this happened to you. Hannibal and you... you really didn't deserve any of it."

          Will frowned, as if he hadn't expected to hear something like that, as if he didn't truly believe it, and it broke Neville's heart that his friend could think they deserved what had happened.

"Thanks, Ginny," he ended up saying, before simply turning around and resuming his way.

          They all followed him in silence, not knowing what to say. To dispel the awkwardness that had settled between them, Hermione cleared her throat and tried to force another discussion.

"Uh... I've noticed you two got a detention a while ago," she said to Will. "I thought you were done with that. You got into a fight again?"

"No, we drank on school ground, and McGonagall lost her shits about it."

"Hannibal's still brewing his own alcohol?"

          Before Ron could get an answer, he turned toward Ginny and continued.

"Last year, he made butterbeers. They were awesome."

"I know," Ginny said, "I was there you know. They tasted great."

"Wait? You drank some?" Ron asked, horrified. "But... There's alcohol!"

"It's butterbeer, Ron," Hermione rolled her eyes. "There's even less alcohol than in cider."

"What's cider?"

          Before they could end the conversation, they had all reached the Middle Courtyard and Will guided them to one of the doors that had no real purpose. There were many of them at Hogwarts. The castle was too big for its own good. Will knocked and, not even waiting for an answer, he opened the door.

          The study room was a bit smaller than a regular classroom, yet it offered plenty of space for a group as small as theirs. They were never really used, and never really cared for, but this one had obviously been thoroughly cleaned and rigorously organized in order to offer the best work environment. Though Neville expected a Halloween themed ambiance, with decorations, lights and whatever could be needed to prepare a feast on the scale of what Hogwarts expected, he was surprised to notice a room devoid of any peculiarity. It seemed empty, most tables having been pushed against the walls. The windows were obstructed, yet the space was brightly led by white lights mimicking the natural sun. Many boxes had been piled against the back wall and Neville guessed that it was there that the result of Hannibal's work was being carefully kept away.

          Hannibal himself was there too. Sitting at the table that had been left at the centre of the room, he was reading a book that was slowly floating in front of him, turning its pages on its own, while his hands were busy cutting pieces away from a black piece of paper. When he heard them come in, he turned toward them, the book docilely putting itself down on the table.

          He detailed each of the newcomers for a second and then:

"Yes?"

"We've come to help," Harry announced cheerfully.

          Once again, Hannibal took the time to detail them.

"Help with…?"

"With whatever you're doing."

"I'm sure you can use our assistance," Ron said as he was walking toward the table.

"So? What do we do?" Ginny asked, following her brother.

          As they all gathered around him, Hannibal was still sitting, his hands stopped in the middle of their motion, his eyes going from one face to the next as if looking for some explanation. The silence settled, offering an awkward balance between the group's enthusiasm and Hannibal's perfect stillness.

"I am afraid I understand," Hannibal ended up saying in a soft toneless voice.

"Will told us you were very busy," Neville said, trying his best to sound cheerful despite what he had just learned.

          And he was good at that. Pretending cheerfulness for people he loved. Hannibal deserved smiles and enthusiasm. Therefore, he continued:

"Surely there are some small tasks we can do for you."

"None that you can do to the level of my expectations," Hannibal frankly said.

"Come on," Harry rolled his eyes. "We're not that useless."

"You're cutting paper," Ron pointed out. "We can do that. We know how to cut paper, you know."

          Hannibal took yet another couple of seconds to process the words being said to him before turning toward Will.

"Is that the result of your impulse?"

"Not entirely."

          Will sat down at the table, next to Hannibal. Neville and the others followed his lead and in a second the table was surrounded by well-meant students.

"So? What do we do?" Hermione asked.

"I do not need any help."

"Will told us you had too much to do," Neville said.

"He was mistaken. I have the right amount to do, and I have them all planned out to be ready for Halloween."

"You're in a fool mood," Will commented.

"I am not," Hannibal stated.

          Hannibal didn't seem angry at all, Neville thought. He didn't seem excessively happy about their help, but he was just as calm and cordial as ever.

"Cut it, Hannibal. If you were your usual self, you'd give us dummy tasks to keep us away from your work and still give us the feeling we're actually useful. You're not being your polite self, it's as close as fool mood as you get."

"Yet, I am perfectly fine."

"You've talked to Dumbledore," Will said out of nowhere.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Hannibal asked, his question reflecting the one on Neville's mind.

"He's the only one who can influence your mood lately. What was it about?"

          Hannibal didn't answer at first, his eyes detailing his boyfriend carefully. Neville still was impressed that Will could read anything on Hannibal's face. It was always so quiet, so serene, Neville could never guess what was going on in that mind.

"We talked about the feast," he finally answered.

"What did he say about it?"

"That it was inconceivable to serve beverages including the smallest dose of alcohol."

"Yeah," Ginny shrugged. "Seems pretty obvious."

"Indeed," Hannibal agreed.

"Yet, you're pissed," Will said, and it wasn't a question.

"I am not 'pissed'."

          And there was something nearly comical in hearing that word coming from Hannibal's educated mouth. Yet, Neville kept his laugh to himself. It wasn’t the right time…

"Sure, you aren't," Will sighed. "What did he say apart from that?"

"He said that, if I truly wanted to prepare a beverage specific for the event, I could mix fruit juices, syrups, and liquids of the sort."

"And it's bad?" Ron asked.

          Slowly, Hannibal's red eyes, that always seemed to have a delay compared to the rest of the world, met Ron's.

"I do not host kid's parties, Ronald. I do not mix orange juice with strawberry syrup and call it a drink."

"You can add more juices, if that's what it's about."

          Hannibal's eyes drilled into Ron's with an expressionless intensity, but Will jumped in.

"You didn't expect him to let you put alcohol in the drinks, did you?"

"No, I did not."

"Then what's the matter?"

"I am simply wondering if the way he worded his refusal wasn't meant to humiliate me."

"What's humiliating about that?" Ginny asked without understanding, and she wasn't alone.

          Just like he had ignored her brother, Will ignored her and continued, his focus solely on Hannibal.

"Listen, I can tell you. It's not.

"You were not there," Hannibal pointed out.

"But maybe I understand Dumbledore just a bit better than you, Hannibal. And I'm telling you. He is not out to humiliate you. I don't even think he finds anything wrong with drinks for kid's parties."

"Why would Dumbledore want to humiliate you?" Harry asked.

"I can see many reasons,..." Hannibal began before being interrupted by Will.

"Hannibal just has a lot of unprocessed anger. We will work on that, but forget it, no one wants to humiliate anyone."

"You're angry at Dumbledore?" Ginny asked, ignoring Will's attempt at temporisation.

"No," Hannibal said and, indeed, he looked as far away from anger as humanly possible. "I am simply wary of attacks."

"Why would he attack you?" Hermione asked in disbelief.

"He has already done it once. Why not again?"

"What?!" Harry exclaimed with shock. "When? How? I can't believe Dumbledore would do something like that! Surely, there's an explanation..."

"It's nothing," Will calmed him down. "He is talking about the Dursleys thing. He is not talking about an actual attack."

"It was an actual attack," Hannibal stated with a voice so soft it was nearly contradicting his words.

"You're still not over it?" Harry asked.

"Over it?" Hannibal repeated.

"Ok, how about everyone shut it from now on?" Will cut with authority.

          He then turned toward Hannibal.

"Dumbledore's not out to humiliate you, he just doesn't want his eleven years old students to get wasted before dessert."

          He then put his hands on Hannibal's cheeks and caressed them tenderly, his affection for his boyfriend obvious despite their opposition on the former topic.

"I'm very sorry you can't have this feast thing exactly the way you want it," he said with a softer voice. "It sucks. But see it as a challenge of your creativity. I know you'll do something great no matter the rules you have to follow. That's not as if there's any circumstance that could ever prevent you from thriving."

          The two boyfriends looked at each other for a second. Hannibal was just as passive as he had been since the start of the conversation, just as placid, yet Will had had to pick up on something because he ended up nodding with a smile, as if Hannibal had answered positively to his words.

"Great. Now give us a stupid task to do, one we may not completely screw up. You know full well it's not about the feast, it's just about spending some time with you."

          Hannibal looked around the room for a second, as if searching what he could ask them to do, and he ended up taking his wand out.

          One of the boxes flew to them, and it was filled with black papers similar to the one Hannibal was currently cutting.

"I will be drawing the shapes, you will be cutting them if you are willing to help me out."

"We can totally do that," Neville nodded.

          The rest of this Saturday afternoon, they spent it cutting forms out of back paper. Hannibal was much faster with a pencil than they were with scissors, and quickly enough, each had a pile of awaiting work in front of them. When he judged he had made enough of them, Hannibal left them to their cutting, and went to lit up the fireplace above which he hanged a cauldron.

"What are you brewing?" Hermione asked

"Something of my own invention. Similar in some ways to what can be found in Pensieves. It is a liquid with the propriety to contain magic enchantment and recast them continuously, the same way Pensieves contain and replay memories. The highly versatile composition of the liquid is sensitive to its magical environment and has great copying abilities."

"What's the point?"

"I soak the paper in this potion, and not only does it require much less effort to cast the enchantment, but it will stay effective much longer without being dependent on my focus. As I have thousands of decorations to enchant, it is a needed help."

"Can we see?"

          Hannibal seemed to hesitate for a second but, ultimately, he dropped a handful of plants in the cauldron and left it at that, walking toward one of the boxes to take a piece of black paper the shape of a crow. He handled it with great care and put it on the table, in the middle of the gathered Gryffindors. He then pointed his wand at the paper and without a word, the fabric twisted itself and it started to evaporate into a heavy and thick black vapor that took the dimensions of a real crow. The bird spread its wings and soared away, forcing Ginny to dive to avoid it.

          As it was flying, a dark trail of smoke was following it, like forgotten clouds in an otherwise bright sky. They all observed its graceful course for a while, and then the bird landed on the top of a cupboard. As soon as it stilled itself, the halo of volutes following it settled around it like a drape of moving shadow, ever-changing and ungraspable.

"That reminds me of something," Harry said, though Neville had never seen something like that. "A famous detention."

"Indeed," Hannibal nodded. "I have to admit I am partial to smoke sculpting. It is my favourite fashion of crafting."

"Awesome!" Ron exclaimed. "Ours will do that as well?"

          He showed the bat he was currently butchering with his scissors. Hannibal looked at it but didn't comment on the poor state of the paper.

"Yes," he said before going back to his cauldron.

"That's why you're cutting them by hand?" Hermione asked. "Cause the potion is magic sensitive?"

"Indeed. Better not to multiply the charms around it."

"It's gonna be scary?" Harry asked, his eyes still on the clouded bird.

"I decided to work around the thematic of Samhain rather than the one of your usual Halloween."

"Samhain?" Neville repeated.

"A Celtic festival,” Hermione said at once. “Some think that it could be the origin of Halloween, before it was Christianised."

"What are those thematic?" Ron asked to Hannibal.

"Halloween is either about saints, if you are a believer, or about fear, if you are not. Samhain celebrates three things, only indirectly related to fear. The harvest, the darkest half of the year, and the opening of graves."

"The opening of graves?"

"They would open the ancient burial mounds under which rested the remains of their loved ones."

"Why the hell would they do that?"

"It was a liminal festival, and they believed it was on that night that the veil between their world and the other world was the thinnest. It was on that night that spirits from the other world could cross the veil. They would leave empty chairs at their table for the haunting spirits of their loved ones and would use offerings and sacrifices to appease them."

"And that was true?" Ginny asked. “Or was it just our usual ghosts?”

"Who knows? You would need to dig up some graves to figure it out."

"Yeah, uh... pass."

"In any case, that will be the theme of the evening. As wizards, our folklore is much closer to the ancient Celtic ones than to the Christianisation they were the victim of. Not that I do not know how to enjoy Christianity. I find in the Christic imageries, writings and rites a constant source of intellectual and spiritual inspiration. But I wouldn't force my own beliefs and sensitivity upon the whole school. Therefore, that evening will be about darkness, harvest and death. And every connection that can be drawn between these three causes for celebration. As our wizarding traditions demand."

"Dope!" Ron exclaimed.

"Sadly, no. Not under Professor Dumbledore's watch, at least."

          The first trip to Hogsmeade came with a characteristic momentum of joy and excitement. The few days before the weekend, the students were already talking about their plans, where they wanted to go and what they wanted to do. The Third Years couldn't get enough of the stories and anecdotes of their elders about the magical village and what could be found there. Some were already scheming to be sure to get a table at the Three Broomsticks, some were counting their money for Honeydukes, some again were bragging about their brave desire to go visit the Shrieking Shack.

          Will didn't know what to expect and what to think. He had never given much thought about the village and had little reason to get overly excited about it. That being said, it was still a day off, and, considering the amount of schoolwork he had and the diligence Hannibal showed for their study, Will was more than happy to put his books and scrolls down and get out of the castle for an afternoon. Especially since Hannibal had promised to accompany him, which he hadn't dared to dream of, considering how busy his boyfriend currently was.

"Where will we go first?" Ron asked, as he was still chewing on a piece of chicken.

"I was thinking The Three Broomsticks?" Hermione said unsurprisingly. "It's always full but their butterbeers are the best. And they say it’s going to rain. We may as well find somewhere warm and dry."

"I also need to buy new sugar quills. I don't have any left."

"We can go to Honeydukes just after."

"How about Zonko’s?" Harry asked.

"Isn't that supporting Fred and George's concurrence?"

"I've heard that Zonko's also buying from them."

"He knows from their time at school that they're geniuses in their field."

"You two gonna come with us?" Ron asked Will and Hannibal directly.

"No," Hannibal answered before Will could even think about it. "We have our own itinerary."

"We can come with you if you want," Ron offered. "We go there every year, it's no big deal if we go to new places today."

"Ron," Hermione softly lectured. "They want to be on their own. Without us."

"Oh! Ah... Uh... Sure, sorry."

"Where do you plan on going?" Harry asked. "I've been to Madam Puddifoot's tea shop. Not really my thing but maybe you'd enjoy it."

"Thank you for the advice. It is duly noted."

          Will could tell that Hannibal already had a plan for their day and there was little chance it would involve any of the shops Hermione, Ron or Harry could have on their mind.

          After their short conversation, they quickly finished their plate and headed towards the main entrance. They were all ready to leave, and didn't have to go back to their dorms, having already taken their coat for the cold weather. Hannibal had decided to stay true to his new growing reputation among the Hogwarts student body. Weekend after weekend, he was slowly being known as an eccentrically fashionable spirit, the only one wearing bright suits and ties at the breakfast table on Sundays, in a crowd of sweaters and sometimes even pyjamas. Today, he was wearing a flamboyant embroidered pelerine above his long wine coat and though he was standing out in the flow of darker clothes, everyone now knew that it was the bare minimum that could be expected from their Hufflepuff classmate.

          By his side, Will had favoured a warm grey hoodie and an old blouson of the same colour. They were parts of the few survivors from Hannibal's fashion purge of Will's wardrobe, but they were more than enough to protect him from the outside weather. A cold drizzle was falling and soaking the ground, creating puddles of mud on their way to the village. It wasn't enough to deter the eager visitors, but most of the students were walking at a fast pace to enter the closest warm and dry shop.

          Hermione, Ron and Harry hurried ahead but Hannibal didn't accelerate and, quickly enough, Will and him were behind the group, alone at last.

          They continued their way toward the village, and Will began to recognize from afar the shape of the roofs and streets he had seen the last time he had been there. The clouds were low on the sky and the sun was struggling to get through that grey mist, but the village still seemed rather different in the day, compared to the night. Despite the rain, it was still a place of leisure and cheerfulness, and the students rushing to the stores were creating quite the happy chaos.

          Will was so focused on his second discovery of the village from above – as they were still waking down the hill on which the castle was perched – that he nearly didn't realize that Hannibal had stopped in his tracks.

          Will, now a few steps ahead, stopped as well and turned around. Hannibal was looking at the village with a strange fondness, as if admiring a place filled with memories. Which was surprising, as Hannibal had as many memories of the village as Will had.

"What are you looking at?" he asked, suspecting that it wasn't really Hogsmeade that his boyfriend was seeing.

"My days," Hannibal simply answered, pensively.

"And?"

"And they are happy."

          Hannibal took a deep breath, and his eyes left the village to fall on Will.

"Two years ago exactly, we swore our lives to each other."

          Will wasn't too sure about the date.

"If by 'swore our lives to each other’ you mean date, then... No. We started dating around April or so."

"October the 12th, 1994 is the first day I laid my eyes on you. I took one look, and it was as well as if we were already together, for me."

"Low-key creepy."

          Will walked back the few steps separating him from Hannibal and kissed the corner of his boyfriend's lips before hugging him.

"Happy anniversary, then," he whispered.

          He rested his head on Hannibal's shoulder and closed his eyes. His hands slipped under the long coat and a bubble of warmth burst between the two enlaced boys.

          For a moment, they remained there, under the rain, unaware of the world around them as they were obnubilated only by themselves. What were coldness and water for a love like theirs?

          Will softly smiled at the thought of that rain and of its insignificance.

"What is it?" Hannibal asked, his hand caressing Will's cheek, both their skins dripping with droplets.

"Just thinking about us."

"Pleasant memories? Or pleasant perspective?"

"Both actually."

          Will straightened up yet didn't let an inch of separation slither between him and Hannibal.

"I just can't believe us. Can you?"

"I am a proficient believer."

"When I think about before and after, I always think about before and after you. But... Even as a us. I remember the us we used to be, when we first decided to share something. A mere room at the time. And the us we are now. Just look at us..."

"I never cease."

"Where is it?"

          Will didn't even have to elaborate; Hannibal knew what he was asking for.

"Right between my lungs. Somewhere between my heart and my trachea."

"We're all the symbols of life are gathered," Will whispered appreciatively.

          His right-hand left Hannibal's back to slip between them, his fingers finding that exact spot on his lover's chest. He couldn't feel it himself, but he knew Hannibal could. Where half of his soul was burning brightly into the darkness of the chest cavity.

          As he was an inch away from his own soul, Will looked right into Hannibal's dangerous red eyes.

"My Horcrux."

          He said as others would have said ‘my love’. And the mere words created in him a singular kind of inebriated joy. Hannibal was more than his lover or his friend. He had never thought twice about the way Hannibal would call him ‘his soul’. But, as often, Hannibal was subtly right.

          They were more than lovers or friends. They were each other's souls. Each other's carriers.

          Will let just enough space between them to clench his fist. He then opened his hand flat, as a red flower was blooming on his palm, its petals of pure ruby. They were thin and arranged around each other to create a pleasingly regular succession of layers drawing concentric circles.

"You did that?" Hannibal asked, raising an eyebrow.

"No. You did."

          Will gave to Hannibal the flower he had created with the magic of Hannibal's piece of soul. Hannibal took it with precious care and detailed how the droplets of rain would bounce against the gemstone and run down the grooves between the petals.

"Happy anniversary," Will repeated.

"Thank you, Will. It is beautiful."

"You'll offer me one when it will be our anniversary according to me. In April."

          Hannibal didn't answer, simply detailing the flower in silence, his thumb slowly caressing the petals.

"How does mine behave?" Will asked, lost in the red reflexion of the stone between them, echoing the exact colour of his lover's eyes.

"Behave..." Hannibal whispered to himself.

"Is mine half as irreverent as yours?"

          He fancied himself to be pretty untameable, but he doubted that the magic of his Horcrux was as entitled as Hannibal's seemed to be. During the summer, Will had been able to get accustomed to how Hannibal's magic liked to be interacted with, and how it would often poetically interpret Will's desires to answer to them in its own fashion. Now he had a better grip on it. However, and though he would always be fond of that red entity, he knew he would never be able to get it to comply fully. Not that he even wanted to.

          He was all the more curious to know how Hannibal had interacted with his own offered piece of soul, and Will's magic that lived there.

"I do not know," Hannibal finally answered.

"You don't know? You still haven't tried?"

"No, I have not."

"You're keeping it for a special occasion?"

          Hannibal didn't answer, and Will knew there was something else behind it.

"Why haven't you used it?" he asked.

          But only the lapping of rain hitting the puddles of mud around them answered him. Hannibal kept his lips sealed and his eyes on the flower.

          Slowly, Will reached for his boyfriend's chin and softly forced it up, until their eyes would finally meet.

"Hannibal," he whispered with kindness, "why haven't you used it yet?"

          For a second, Will thought that Hannibal would remain just as silent, but he finally answered.

"I do not know how to access it," he admitted so softly it was nearly drowned under the song of the rain.

"Oh..." Will said, at loss for better words.

          It didn't make sense. There was nothing difficult about that. Will had been able to do it without a second thought. He couldn't even picture what kind of difficulty one could have with it, let alone if that one was Hannibal.

          Certainly able to understand Will's confusion, Hannibal defended himself.

"You have a sense dedicated to it, Will. That allows you to perceive it. You can then see it, and touch it. You just have to imagine its place and there it is. But for us mere mortals, it is not how it works."

"You're not a mere mortal."

"I still cannot feel it."

"You said you could feel my soul."

"Yes."

"Then there you'll find my magic."

"When you cast a spell, you draw it from somewhere in your body?"

"Well... No..."

"It is a passive reflex. Something we don't feel, we just do. Knowing where your hand is is not what allows you to move it."

"No, you're right but... It's not the same when it comes from the Horcrux. It's more... conscious. Like... I just go in your room, in my head. Then, there's this place. With the altar and... and the scene..."

          As he was describing it, Will was detailing Hannibal's face, hoping to read understanding or even reminiscing there. He did not. Hannibal had never been to the place Will was describing.

"There it is," he ended uselessly. "The Horcrux's magic is there."

"Will, you alone have the power to imagine symbols so strongly they somehow become reality."

          Hannibal had stated that fact with softness, as if careful not to break Will's fantasized world.

"That means… my Horcrux doesn't produce any magic?"

"It does. It just means... I don't know how to access it."

          And it was obvious that admitting it aloud was physically painful for Hannibal. It was as close to shame and defeat as he had ever been.

"You want us to work on it?" Will offered.

"I will find my way," Hannibal answered right away, "thank you."

"Fine."

          Will kissed Hannibal's cheek, to distract his attention and to slip past his defences. Instinctively, Hannibal brought him into a hug, passing his free arm behind Will's back, his other hand slipping the sculpted flower into his pocket.

"So? What do you have in mind for today?" Will asked, his head back on Hannibal's shoulder.

"Murders."

          Of course. Will didn't even pretend to look surprised. He had guessed it before lunch.

"We gotta catch our Umbridge for the Halloween feast?" he asked.

"Dolores allowed us to make one meal out of her. Here, it is a feast. Feasts require abundance."

"How many Umbridges do we need?"

"Five?"

"Five?"

"Five would be a festive amount."

"Really necessary?"

"That would allow me to only take the best parts. And to be generous on the portions. Yes. Five is the number for festivity."

"Fine. Five it is."

          Will turned around and stood by Hannibal's side. He still had his head on his boyfriend's shoulder, but they were now both looking at the village.

"Who?"

"Point me the unworthy, I will root it out."

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 10

Happy Harvest

          Daffodil Groyvet was a bright young woman. According to her own opinion, at the very least.

          She may have failed most of her OWLs and all of her NEWTs, she had been able to place her pawns elsewhere and secure a bright future for herself without the validation of her useless teachers. Sure, she couldn't have done it if she hadn’t had a rich – conveniently dying – aunt, but Daffodil would still talk about merit. After all, she wasn't supposed to be the sole relative on the will. She had had to woo and endure that stupid old fart for months and use her senility to her advantage to not only get on the paper but also kick the children and grandchildren out of it. If it wasn't brilliance and merit, then there was nothing brilliant nor meritorious in this world.

          The money she had gained from the death of the aunt had allowed her to buy herself a nice flat in Hogsmeade, near the Three Broomsticks, where she could both gloat at the sight of Hogwarts which had diminished her talents, and employ her days spending her well earned money in the different shops and pubs. Sometimes, in the evening most often, though also during trip days, she would spot one of her former teachers in the village. She would never miss an occasion to walk to them to remind them of their mistake regarding her future and to make sure they were aware that it was now in her village that they were kindly invited, despite the harm they had done to her. Sure, she didn't really own the village, but she owned one of the best flats, and that was about the same.

          McGonagall, in particular, she liked to go talk to. The old hag had given her Ds and Ts throughout her whole schooling, and she deserved to be constantly reminded of the fact that she hadn't done right by a mind as unique and promising as the one of Daffodil.

          When McGonagall or any other teacher would be able to get away from her, she would then not hesitate to go talk to their influenceable students and warn them not to listen to these sorry, decrepit asses that had no other intention than to harm them.

          Ultimately, Daffodil thought she was living the life she had always wanted. The one she deserved, and the one she knew was a positive addition to the world.

          That was why the end of that life came at a shock. A few misplaced and mistimed words, the wrong ego bruised, and it was all over in a blink.

          The day she unintentionally ended her own life was a Saturday. And it all happened in a matter of seconds, not even a full minute.

          She was at The Woodcroft's, having decided to eat a very tardive lunch in the sturdy establishment. It wasn't a restaurant per say but they could serve one plate if they were being bugged enough about it. Daffodil was a client, and if she wanted food, she was in her good right to demand it. The fish finger sandwiches were dripping with fat and the crisps were old and soggy but it was nothing compared to the satisfaction of having forced the bartenders to do their job by serving her what she wanted. Therefore, she would often come here for food. If anything, her lesson was doing them a favour and helping them remain a decent business.

          At that moment, she was on her way to the counter to ask for more mushy peas, passing by two boys, a tall one – probably a Seventh Year from Hogwarts, considering it was field trip day – who was talking to the stupid blue haired woman behind the bar, and a shorter one who was waiting by his side.

"I need more mushy peas," she stated loud enough to be clearly heard and understood.

          The woman turned toward her, but it was the tall boy who answered in lieu, even though Daffodil had not even acknowledged his existence.

"My apologies, Ms, but I am afraid I am fully monopolizing the attention of our kind yet not ubiquitous bartender at the moment. I assure you I will shorten my request but, in the meantime, I would advise you to wait in order to be served."

          The boy had an horrendous accent, it was nearly impossible for Daffodil to understand for sure any of the words that were leaving that mouth. How hard could it be to speak decent English? Wasn’t it the least that had to be done to visit an English-speaking country?

"Or maybe you should wait. Because I sure won’t wait for you to be done with whatever you have going on. And if you're not happy with it, you can just go back to wherever you come from. No one's keeping you here and maybe you will get served faster."