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Sipping his tapped water, Doctor Hannibal Lector welcomed the cold spreading through his system and temporarily blocked away the harsh voice from the past that permanently resided in his brain, bringing images of a sister he so wished to forget.
He swirled the glass in his hand, enjoying the sound it made and wondering about the power of water.
It could adapt to any life circumstance, no matter what nature threw at it.
If it met cold, it became ice. If it met heat, it became water. If someone used fire on it floated in the air as steam, never letting anyone destroy it.
There was a lot to learn from water and Mother Nature; unfortunately, humans were too stupid to take lessons from them.
Instead, they destroyed nature bit by bit, thinking it will never retaliate against them.
But you could poke someone or something for only so long before the injured party decided to end the threat once and for all.
A sinister smile shaped his lips when he thought of the rude people he had the displeasure of meeting through the years.
Certain people did not deserve a quick, fast death, especially not his victims. They were uncivilized pigs.
The true beauty of torture lay in the skill the executioner possessed, transforming a mere killing into an art form for which not everyone had the talent or patience
He enjoyed watching them struggle for breath as the air slowly left their rotten bodies and their faces became red and blue.
His every depraved desire to inflict pain came to fruition by abusing their flesh so much after their death and taking parts of them inside him.
Although, this brand of cruelty went to only those who most deserved it for he could not stand them for another heartbeat.
After all, his rules were very simple: You get what you earned by your rude actions, and do not cry for mercy when you displayed none through your life and offended him knowingly or unknowingly.
‘Simpere fuiste un cobarde.’ A man who is born a coward dies a coward, so his victims’ behaviour didn’t really surprise him.
Please…
An annoying word that bored him to death, because it was always followed by some kind of begging or hope that alluded to the supposed remorse they felt for being so rude when in fact it was nothing but a coward’s way to escape the monster’s clutches, thinking he would believe their deceitful lies.
Although, even truthful remorse wouldn’t change his mind, as the sounders captured behind the walls of his haven did not deserve to live.
No God would help them, but sometimes, he allowed them to ask for atonement before their deaths.
But then, did atonement exist for sinners, or was it a myth created by religious fanatics promising salvation for everyone as long as they turned to faith and followed it blindly?
Power was always about control, because what could be controlled never stepped out of the boundaries the powerful party drew around them.
And in such, it imprisoned them in the illusion of their creation.
Forgive them?
How funny.
He did not forgive.
He did not forget.
He did not give second chances.
Truth be said, the pigs should be grateful for his kindness.
His violence was often done through intimate acts with him getting close and personal with them and eventually, consuming parts of their flesh.
Was there a more intimate act of absolution than cannibalism?
Of course not.
He was a survivor who conquered his past and managed to find a dazzling escape, one he was not ready to part with.
Killing must feel good to God too. He did it all the time.
His haunting art was understood by few and even though it saddened him to be dubbed under names such as Il Monstro Di Firenze or the Chesapeake Ripper as of late, he wouldn’t complain.
The soulful notes of Deceptive Cadence played from the background and echoed in his office. He hummed softly imagining his next dinner.
His hums mixed with the music and created a peaceful atmosphere around him.
He missed the scent of blood teasing his nostrils while it filled pigs’ mouths and spilt over their chins and the screams ringing in his ears while they asked for a mercy he did not possess or understand.
He enjoyed the moment their screams turned into whimpers while sweat and blood coated their skin and his knife.
Why even take a weapon in your hand if you couldn’t execute the punishment?
The heart in his chest had one purpose and one purpose only, to pump the blood in his veins.
Otherwise, nothing but coldness resided in it, and nothing had the power to soften it.
Because goodness couldn’t exist in darkness, and some fools deserved to die.
Hannibal sighed wistfully.
Disappointment and boredom became synonyms for the word victim in his vocabulary, as none of them was bright enough to spark an interest in the monster ruling his soul.
And what bored him shall always be destroyed.
The wooden clock he had in the right corner ticked loudly.
Each tick-tock created more anticipation and beautiful pictures in his mind while he wondered how long it would take for the one person who had been on his tail for months to catch on to things and surrender.
Clasping his hands in front of him, he closed his eyes and summoned her face from the deep recesses of his memory.
She was a tempting morsel, one he couldn’t bring himself to taste.
Whenever he imagined piercing her gut with a blade as her shouts reverberated off the walls of his office and her body jerked in agony, the concept did not sit well with him.
There was something special about her, something that made him break his rules and forfeit his safety to lure her into his trap.
Miss Hilary Potter was an enigma, one he intended to unfold.
The English Criminal Profiler and Serial Killers Huntress joined the FBI months ago.
No one had an inkling about the hows, it was as if she woke up one day and decided to leave her homeland and travel to the States.
There was darkness in her, deep-rooted and waiting for the right moment to take over.
He planned to nurture that darkness and unleash it. He knew he wouldn’t be disappointed.
It was going to be something great, something unprecedented and probably one of his finest works.
Hannibal was slowly and stealthily sneaking up on her and wrapping his clutches so tight around her heart that it squeezed the goodness out until nothing but the sleeping monster remained.
Driven by vengeance and hatred, her sadistic desires would root in her soul, which has been sold to the devil the moment he first treated her and diagnosed her encephalitis.
He lied about her illness and watched as she struggled against her hallucinations, giving him bits and bits of her past and granting him the chance to draw a clearer picture of his supposed enemy.
Despite his mind games and flawless manipulations, she remained unswayed from her certainty that he was the Chesapeake Ripper.
The scales from her eyes started falling when she confessed that she made her first kill at the age of eleven and he couldn’t wait for her to see clearly.
He knew she sought him first not for his medical expertise but to investigate his whereabouts.
Somehow, the brunette possessed a unique psychological ability that led her to him.
That or she was a Ragana as he suspected.
Hannibal grew up in Lithuania to the stories of Laima, Velnias and the Artivaras.
His logical mind wouldn’t under normal circumstances process the existence of Raganu. But Hilary Potter was one. He heard her confession clear as day while she suffered from a hallucination episode.
A witch...
It made her all the more interesting.
His secretary knocked once.
“Come in,” he said.
“Doctor Lecter, Miss Potter is here for her session.”
“Let her in,” he straightened his tie and tugged at his cuffs.
His mouth shaped in a smile, his teeth itching to leave an imprint on her flesh.
Hilary glided inside soundlessly, like the eerie predator she was.
Her dark hair, falling just below her shoulders, accentuated her tan skin and high cheekbones, bringing attention to the uncanny symmetry of her face and making all the sculptors in the world jealous that such perfection existed.
Except for the scars on her forehead and her forearm.
She wore them like a badge of honour daring anyone to question her about them.
It only added to the alluring darkness hovering over her and whispering at him to touch it and get them both burned.
They stared at each other for what seemed like forever before she lowered her eyes.
Hannibal applauded himself for the progress he made.
When they first met, Hilary displayed autistic tendencies. She couldn’t hold his gaze for a second and evaded the direct approach.
It seemed he started bringing balance to her unbalanced mind.
“Take a seat, Miss Potter,” he spoke up, his chest vibrating with words that intensified the fire spreading slowly to his soul.
He did not know what attracted him to her.
It wasn’t love for he knew he was incapable of feeling the emotion. Yet intimacy came in all shapes and forms. A real connection like the one blossoming between him and Hilary Potter was rare and transcended all boundaries.
Hilary reminded him of himself before Mischa’s death.
He had been caged, restrained by society’s expectations. He spent years stifling the darkness within and if not for her murder, he would’ve been lost. It was the event that set him free and made all the chains around him disappear.
“How have you been, Miss Potter?”
“Are you not going to psychoanalyze me today, Hannibal? Won’t you try to know what nightmares lie coiled beneath my pillow?” she asked quietly, her piercing eyes riveted to his hands.
If someone came to him at that moment and asked for a definition of the art form in this world, he would tell them to look at her as she fought recklessly and futilely against him.
Her pulse beat wildly as she mulled over her next words and her flowery scent filled his starved nostrils and made him crave to press a knife to her neck and watch goosebumps spread on her skin as blood trickled from her wound.
He wouldn’t kill her, never. However, her blood would remind him that she was real and not a fragment of his imagination.
In time, he learned to never truly crave or desire anything, as it could always be used as a weakness against him, and besides, goodness always had a price.
However, in that instant, looking at this woman who had spoken to his monster with her damaged soul and awakened protective instincts he never knew he possessed anymore…
He wanted.
He desired.
He craved.
And he was going to get.
The rules of the game had just changed.
❈•≫────≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫────≪•❈
Hilary looked at the man she hated and loved with passion.
Cold sweat slid down her skin while her chest rose and fell, awaiting some kind of reaction from him, but he gave her none.
He just cocked his head to the side and waited.
She regretted meeting this monster she wanted and resented at once.
When she was a child, nothing belonged to her, and anything she wanted was never given to her, because this life showed her from an early age how cruel it could be to those who least deserved it.
Bit by bit, she lost her faith and her soul.
However, she was a skilled actress. A Natural.
She kept the charade and let the manipulators, the liars and the gold-diggers feed on the last remains of her soul; the same soul she had shared with Tom Marvolo Riddle for seventeen years.
Was Dumbledore a fool?
Of course, he was. Otherwise, how could he expect her to emerge unscathed and as pure as driven snow?
Her demons kept raging and calling for blood, flesh and bones.
She imagined wringing Petunia’s giraffe-like neck and sipping hot blood straight from the source.
She craved Vernon’s peanut-like brain. It would’ve tasted good on her plate whether boiled, fried or baked.
She resisted the urge to cut Ron’s deceitful tongue and have it skinned and pressed then pickled, dried and smoked.
The bastard with deep trust issues who stabbed her in the back time and again deserved that.
As for Dumbledore…
She did not know where to start.
Maybe with the twinkling eyes that invaded her privacy and made her walk on edge perpetually. They would’ve tasted good with bean soup.
But Hilary wasn’t weak.
She was a survivor who resisted her true nature until she usurped her freedom by force and left everything behind.
When she first killed Quirrell, she felt terrified and then…she felt powerful.
It was as if she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and looked right through herself, past herself as if she was just a stranger she just met.
It was overwhelming and powerful and beautiful.
She couldn’t resist licking his ashes from her hands before she fainted.
She took a piece of her first kill inside her as a talisman, as a reminder, as a proof that Hilary; just Hilary, existed underneath all the masks.
It wasn’t the last morsel she savoured.
Memories of Dobby, Barty, Dumbledore, Remus and Tonks lived inside her like a tattoo.
They were spoils of the war, tokens she gathered because she knew she would leave after the battle.
Hilary applied for an Auror job in MACUSA after the long trip she took for three years around Europe.
She was accepted immediately for no one would refuse the Saviour.
A raising Serial Killer dabbed as the Chesapeake Ripper started making the No-Maj worried.
MACUSA was asked to provide some help to their No-Maj counterparts and catch the criminal post haste.
Hilary volunteered for the mission.
The killer fascinated her.
He was without a grain of doubt the most complex psychopath she knew of. His cruelty rivalled that of Voldemort.
He was amazing for somehow he managed once and again to perform the perfect crime.
She knew it was him since the first time they met.
Danger was wrapped around him like a snug cloak, indicating there was a high price to pay if she wanted to unlock the secrets hiding in his merciless eyes.
And passion.
Passion so strong it wrapped around her and pulled her toward him, almost shouting at her to go down the abyss and discover all the things she had denied herself.
Things that had the most tragic consequences, and although her instincts urged her to run far, far away from this man who threatened her carefully put-together world, her heart… her treacherous heart already knew there would be no reprieve, no matter where she ran.
Because love in her family was a curse.
And it seemed she just found hers.
“Are you ready to talk?” Hannibal’s toneless voice pierced through the silence stretching between them and snapped her out of the haze the cruel man created around them whenever they were alone in the fake safety of his office.
Although she wished to race away from there—and all the hunger he inspired—her deep longing demanded to be soothed in a way that would hurt many.
Hilary wanted to apparate as soon she closed the door, to keep pretending and forget she ever met her tormentor.
However, she stayed glued to her chair already guessing the hunter would follow her wherever she went. The glint in his dark eyes indicated that much.
“You know why I’m here,” she said and his eyes sparkled in amusement at her stern tone, not fooled in the least.
“Do I, Hilary? My thoughts are often not tasty but I wonder…are you experiencing difficulty with your aggressive feelings? Do you need my guidance or perhaps, my assistance?” he swept his orbs over her, possessiveness and satisfaction shining in them as if he was promising to show her later what he meant.
She stilled and opened her Occlumency Shields, the ones she spent years perfecting after her unpleasant experience with Snape.
Fear crossed her mind and with it came devastation, then determination.
“You are the Chesapeake Ripper; the Copycat Killer. You’ve been presenting me with your victims for months and drawing a clearer picture of your true motives,” she said icily, rasping her knuckles over the table and waiting.
Hannibal’s smile widened. “Am I now? Or are you merely projecting?”
Hilary hissed, heat zipping through her cold heart. “I know. I’ve always known since I examined the first victim. It’s you, Dr Lecter,” she taunted, throwing all caution to the wind.
She was at the end of her tether.
All that blood, all those psychopaths.
The beautiful feeling when she killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs, the Minnesota Shrike.
All the vivid crime scenes and the beautiful minds behind them.
She wanted to kill him, but...she wanted to keep him.
He was the only human being who saw the real her.
Hannibal must have recognized her surrender.
He reached her in three short strides and dragged her limp body against the wall.
He closed his eyes momentarily and she watched his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.
Why did he have to be the one man she would go down the abyss with?
He lifted the Spyderco Harpy knife he took from his pocket to her face, dipping the tip to her cheek until a bead of blood rose.
She groaned in pain and ecstasy, moving her head to the side, which seemingly added to his excitement because the knife slid deeper into the skin.
“Look at me, Hilary,” he leaned closer as her breathing sped up.
The blood slid to her chin while he twisted the knife to her louder whimper.
“Please,” she begged, swallowing hard, which resulted in the knife sliding again as their gazes clashed.
Power glowed within her when he confessed. “I feel like I have dragged you into my world but I don’t regret it. You are a Goddess, Hilary, and I’ll forge and mould your crown from my pigs’ bones.”
Hilary nodded, hissing when he took the knife away.
Hope laced her broken soul when he bit her lower lip mercilessly.
Laughable really, since she had no plans to rebuke his claim. Ever
“Would you like to have dinner with me, tonight?” he asked, leaning against her body while she plastered her back firmer against the wall.
A hollow laugh settled between them as they lost themselves to each other.
The answer to his question came too quickly though and had it been anyone else; it wouldn’t have painted her in the best of light.
However, Hilary Potter was past caring, past hiding.
Venomous words spilt from her lips unabashed as he lifted his hand and ran his knuckles over her bloody cheek. “I want Alana Bloom.”