The Wendigo’s Secret Crush

TITLE: THE WENDIGO’S SECRET CRUSH
Author: excentrykemuse

Written: 23 August, 2020

Wordcount: 8k
Fandom(s): Harry Potter / Hannibal Extended Universe / Addams Family

For Udalumis. A Harry Potter / Addams Family (/ Hannibal Extended Universe) Crossover.

Pairing(s): fem!Harry/Hannibal
Secondary Pairing(s): Will Graham/Margot Verger (platonic)

Written For: Udalumis
Prompt: HP xover Addams Family (could include Hannibal or Moriarty too). Harry, as a the last remaining Black, is taken in by the Addams Family, their distant relatives. He (or she) then is introduced to Dark society and officially courted by only the most prominent of Dark families through the preferred Addams method, clever and artistic murder. [Basically, I just want to read a courtship through murder fic]

Warning(s): Rule 63, crack, cannibalism, murder, mentions of torture/waterboarding, poisoning, voodoo practice, Alana bashing, Hermione bashing, character death (canon, mostly offscreen)

I.

It was all so terribly dull, Hetta thought to herself.

At Hogwarts, no one had really known, or, rather, they hadn’t been clever enough to find out.

The official thought process was this (and how did this make sense?):

  • Point one, Sirius Black was a murderer
  • Point two, Hetta Potter was Sirius Black’s goddaughter but there’s a war so blood ties and magical adoptions (such as becoming a godfather) meant nothing as politics are greater than pure unadulterated magic
  • Point three, Sirius Black broke out of prison, ran about a bit, died mysteriously and never would have contact with his favorite relative (blood or magic related), especially since she was a world famous witch on the wrong side of the war by virtue of her birth
  • Point four, nothing

The truth made much more sense, at least to Hetta.

  • Point one, Sirius Black magically adopted Hetta Potter days after her birth
  • Point two, when the Potters died she magically became the ward of her magical godfather, one Sirius Black
  • Point three, when Sirius Black was incarcerated, all provisions for her were made by his will, and had nothing to do with any random Muggle blood relations on her mother’s side (a common misconception)
  • Point four, Sirius Black hated almost all of the Blacks, except for his third cousin once removed Morticia, and her husband Gomez Addams
  • Point five, at the tender age of sixteen months (or thereabouts) Hetta Potter was placed in the custody of the Addams Family and had a rather singular upbringing, not that anyone really noticed when she went to Hogwarts

When Hetta Potter was a little girl, she was strangely fascinated by death.  She had these wonderful dreams of bright green light and cackling laughter.

Her Uncle Gomez, as she called him, couldn’t have been prouder when her first words were “Avada Kedavra.”

Her Aunt Morticia let her perform a conscious autopsy on the gardener (that is to say, the gardener was awake and loving it) when Hetta was eight and accidentally killed the boy next door when she picked up her aunt’s wand and said her favorite words.  Of course, with that sort of positive reinforcement, “Avada Kedavra” became not only Hetta’s first words, but also her favourite.

For the purpose of this story, I would like to assure the readers that the boy next door told everyone (via a séance) that was quite happy to be dead.  After all, there was all the ice cream he could ever want in what Muggles would call “heaven.”

If Hetta got into a little more trouble her first year at Hogwarts than anyone expected (Professor Quirrel’s death was accidental, officially) everyone assumed it was her greatness shining forth as The Girl Who Lived.

Somehow, not even the great Albus Dumbledore managed to revise this opinion even with the mounting body count.

For the purpose of this story, Hetta always performed a séance to ensure that the dead were happy with her lot.  Unsurprisingly, she got an O on her Divination OWL and NEWT.  If she was Prof. Trelawney’s favourite student in the entire length of her career, no one could blame the Professor or, indeed, Hetta.

A fellow Gryffindor by the name of Hermione Granger always stated (to whomever would listen, mainly her boyfriend, Ron Weasley) that Hetta was just as much of a fraud as Trelawney.

In defense of Miss Granger, know-it-alls are a bit full of themselves, especially if they suddenly realize that book smarts cannot always hide a lack of natural talent.


But to get back to the point, no one quite figured out that Hetta may not be a Muggle-raised doe-eyed girl from Surrey.  None of the cunning Slytherins looked past her mass of untamable curls and thought her hand-stitched uniform was a byproduct of Muggle culture (it wasn’t; Thing was just terribly good with a needle and thread).  None of the brilliant Ravenclaws bothered to look up from their parchment and quills to realize a Gryffindor (Hetta Potter, not Hermione Granger, oddly enough) got top marks. And, well, the popular belief that Hufflepuffs are gossips is an overgeneralization.

Hetta, then, went through Hogwarts with everyone none the wiser.

In truth, she got a bit fed up with it all just before seventh year.  She did like a good mystery, but Dumbledore enjoyed being a cliché a bit too much and then refused to answer her questions in séance after going off and mysteriously dying (If the man – now dead – claimed it was Regulus’s Black fault, well, that just showed his lack of imagination as everyone knew Regulus Arcturus Black had been on permanent holiday in the Falklands since before the defeat of Voldemort).

So, Hetta left wizarding Britain and left it for good.  Years later, when her own beautiful boy was just about to go to Hogwarts, she learned that she had apparently (according to the British wizards) been living in a tent to fight Voldemort.  Hetta disliked camping.  It ruined her nails.  With the approval of her beloved slightly-off-kilter husband, their son (Hannibal IX) was transferred to Ilvmorney with no questions asked before he was even of an age to attend.

To rewind to her abrupt departure before seventh year: about this time, Ron Weasley got spattergroit.

I believe the author mentioned Hermione Granger.  She was barred from Hogwarts on account of being a Muggleborn.  She decided to fight the good fight against Voldemort (right, sorry, You-Know-Who; sorry to offend) but ended up being little more than a footnote in the story of the overall war.

Hetta spent the year in New Orleans with her very distant cousin (so distant he might as a Muggle and couldn’t be called a Squib, even if his socialite mother’s father’s aunt’s sister was a Black) … who was a beat cop in the city and took down the names of everyone who not only died violently but interestingly, and then would help her with her séances. 

The only reason she went back to deal with Voldemort is that one particular gentleman who died (“bullet shots post mortem,” Will informed her, “looks like the Killing Curse, if I’m honest”) insisted during her third séance that the Dark Lord was only getting started and might very well set his sights on America. 

Well, Hetta couldn’t have that.  She knew about the witch trials in Salem, the Red Scare not too many decades earlier, and there was rumbling in the spirit world about upcoming racial tensions somewhere in the vicinity of the Pacific, though that was terribly vague, even for Hetta.  Intolerance was intolerance and – let’s be honest – the Addams didn’t so much practice magic as much as they practiced witchcraft, and to the closed-minded in the world, this was the sort of thing that must be stopped.  Voodoo, if you read pamphlets from the Ministry of Magic, was also on its list of things that were perverse, along with intermarriage with Muggles, and paying local taxes.

So, with a note to Aunt Morticia and a quick call to Will, she hopped across the pond and dealt with the problem herself.

If she died in the process for approximately two minutes, it was only because she’d never died before, and Hetta was nothing if not curious and eager for new experiences.

Of course, there was backlash.  A rather nosy Rita Skeeter teamed up with some blogger named Freddie Lounds to do a full profile on Hetta Potter.  It all came out then (even if she was, simultaneously, supposedly living in a tent in the Forest of Dean).  Not only was Hetta Potter the Girl Who Lived, the conqueror, but the most eligible witch on the planet by pureblood standards.

And the courting gifts began to trickle in … until there was a torrent … for anyone who was Muggle-savvy enough to know not only what the White Pages were, but how to access the information published inside.

By the point the story broke internationally, it had been seven years since the death of Voldemort, Hetta was twenty-five, and she couldn’t step outside her house in Grimmauld Place without being assaulted by camera flashes.

Aunt Morticia said she could come “home,” but Hetta was grown.  Her cousin Pugsley had been older than her for the first few years of Hetta’s life, but failed to age.  The same could be said about Wednesday.  Hetta couldn’t help but feel sad that they repeated the same childish tricks and horrors again and again with glee and never progressed to anything wonderful (point in case, serial murder at a boarding school disguised as self-defense).

It was her cousin Will who offered her a solution.

He had recently retired from the NOPD and taken up with the FBI.  The Bureau had him teaching on the subject of atypical serial killers (and he was an expert, he had done multiple autopsies on Hetta’s brain over the years in the course of his studies, and she had enjoyed every single one).  He wasn’t in the field, for whatever reason.  Apparently (and wasn’t this amusing?) Will was too unstable.

For those who don’t know: “unstable” is a codeword for “brilliant” and “ahead of his/her times.” 

The plebs were always afraid of what they didn’t understand.  Case in point: Elvis.

Will had too many dogs (five and counting), and he was against feeding them arsenic, but she could get lost in the fields and almost got eaten once by a coyote (or at least, that’s the story she was telling).

She would occasionally show up at the FBI and sit on one of his lectures and ask pointed questions, but he would always make eye contact, smile, and tell her what she already knew.

It was a simple life.  Until, of course, it got interesting.

II.

Will Graham was very good at his job.  He profiled serial killers because … well, he lived in a family of mayhem, murder, and death (all compliments).  He knew them inside and out he couldn’t help but empathize with serial killers, sadists, and … well.

Most killers, however, had no finesse.  Their brains were uncomplicated, though atypical.

That is, until the Chesapeke Ripper.

Now, normally, Will wouldn’t have gotten involved, but it’s such a slow, slippery slope.

He was a bit bored, there were some missing girls, some creepy (not a compliment) psychiatrist thought he was “fascinating” and he couldn’t help but bite back, “You haven’t met Hetta, then.”

It was a defense mechanism, really.  Will never much liked being noticed, especially by morally upstanding individuals who thought murder was wrong because it was the taking of another life (never mind if the life was worthless, if the life wanted to be taken, or if resurrection was on the table, as it often was). 

Unfortunately, Will made the comment in front of Jack.

“Hetta?”

Will glanced over but kept his eyes at around Jack’s shoulder.  “Hmm,” was all he answered.

He didn’t realize that Dr. Lecter had titled his head to the side, clearly in thought.

III.

Hetta knew it wasn’t accidental.  She had a sixth sense about these sorts of things.

She was in Baltimore for the afternoon because she’d gotten a tip that an actual zombie (the proper kind, not the kind in Muggle horror films) had a tendency to show up around dusk in the back alleys behind certain restaurants.

Of course, Hetta was early, so thought she might kill some time (no pun intended) at a little Moroccan café.  She was sitting a table, drinking coffee and reading a dreadfully sinful little piece by the Marquis de Sade when someone asked, “Is this seat taken?”

Looking up, she saw a handsome man in a checkered suit of dark blue and yellow, impeccable tie in a Windsor knot, with an oxblood shirt.  A quick glance around her told her that there were other available tables.

Still, she hadn’t quite amused herself properly that day.  If he proved tiresome, she could envision what he would look like with blood dripping from his ears.

It might clash with the shirt, but that’s what imagination is for.  Artistic license can be mental, after all.

She leaned back and closed her book, sliding it to the side.  “Not at the moment,” she replied casually.  “I don’t think any of these seats are taken.”

A small smile, amused perhaps, covered his generous lips and he sits down opposite her, placing a small cup of coffee down on the table.  “You seemed so amused,” he explained, “by literature most find shocking or, alternately, arousing, that I had to meet the woman behind the expression.”

His voice was cultured, refined, and utterly intoxicating.

A sip of her own coffee, Hetta allowed her eyelashes to flick toward him in a slight but commonplace seduction.  “What I find amusing is that others find it either shocking… or arousing.”

Whoever this man, he seemed pleased by her answer.  “You are a collector of human folly.”

The idea was a strange one and she had never considered it.  “Perhaps…” she admitted.  “And you are?”

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” he responded promptly.  “I am enchanted to meet you.”

This, certainly, amused her.  “You don’t even know my name,” Hetta remarked.

“Is it not superfluous to this discussion, however curious I am to learn it?” he parried, which caused her to genuinely smile for the first time in months.

Later, when she found a wishbone in her purse (boy, age 8 to 11, Asian by the look of it), she thought it was a bit of luck and didn’t connect it to the man—Hannibal—although her thoughts turned to a hidden wish within her heart that she might see him again.

IV.

Jack was looming outside his lecture, waiting for him to finish, and Will did not appreciate it.  Agent Jack Crawford believed that Will was his oracle … if only he would look, look deeper … There should be a mental condition that could explain Jack Crawford.  Driven? Certainly. Obsessive? Check. Dangerous? To anyone he deemed unworthy.

Jack Crawford deemed Will Graham unworthy.

Will would just have to steal a bit of skin or something and would make a voodoo doll.  It might cheer Hetta up.  That sort of thing usually did, and that Malfoy brat was being obtuse again.  She needed a reason to smile.

… maybe he’d pop over to England and kill the little pureblood idiot.  He just couldn’t look in his eyes.  He might empathize, and that sort of person made Will visibly ill.

Then, when the deed was done and the ferret no longer alive to try to ferret his way into Hetta’s affections, Will could come back and serve Hetta steak and (human) kidney pie.  The tastes of home were always ones that brought comfort.

… and then Will could make a voodoo doll of Jack and watch him suffer slowly.  Win-win.  Both would make Hetta happier, and one would solve his current problems.

Of course, about two minutes before the end of the lecture, Hetta showed up with a surprisingly large smile on her face.

It was unlike her, and yet utterly captivating.

Will often thought his favorite cousin was like Persephone, goddess of the underworld and yet sweet, innocent, and full of joie de vie.

When the lecture wrapped up, he watched his students scurry away and decided to prod Jack a bit.  “Has someone died, Hetta?” he teased, not looking at her as he closed his presentation on his laptop.

“If only,” she responded, coming up, glancing at Jack only to determine that he was an unintelligent Neanderthal like most FBI employees.  “But it’s much better.”

Chuckling, Will allowed himself a moment of contentment.  “What could be better?”

“Someone,” she told him happily, “delivered a chunk of handmade, hand cut, Aztec blood chocolate.—With an obscene amount of chili powder mixed into the chocolate,” Hetta added, clearly as an afterthought, and grinned like a Cheshire cat.  A demented if adorable Cheshire cat.

The thought stunned him for a moment.  Aztec blood chocolate was a myth, the recipe lost long before Spanish explorers found the sacred temples.  Licking his lips, he asked, his voice little more than a whisper, “you sure?”

When she nodded, his eyes dilated,

“One of your suitors?”

“He is now,” she agreed, “first time one of those idiots did something right.”

Before he could answer, however, with more than a hopeful smile (he didn’t want Hetta to get married and move back to England, she was like a little sister, but he didn’t want her to be unhappy) … Jack barked at him, “Graham.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes at Hetta.  “Save me a piece.”

“Of my chocolate?” she teased, but then kissed him on the cheek.

He’d never seen her so happy… and that counted all the years he knew her before she added Voldemort to her “AK list.”

IV.

Hetta knew the proper procedure among law-abiding Muggles.  If you came across a crime, you should dial 9-1-1 or get help some other way (such as running, screaming, through the town square, crying ‘wolf’ even if it’s a wendigo that’s causing the ruckus).

However, the picture is so terribly pretty that she can’t bring herself to move.

She’ll claim it was shock afterward.

The woman had ginger hair, full lips, and one could argue was mildly attractive with cosmetics.  Hetta always thought a person’s soul determined his desirability, but most people thought differently.

She was naked, somehow sitting cross legged, her chest cleanly sliced through as if by a medical professional.  The ribcage was pried open and the heart was clearly missing.

Oh, that would be what was clearly roasted on the plate at her feet.  Glancing once more at the tableau, wondering if the smile on the victim’s face was manipulated or if she really was happy when she died – and wouldn’t that be nice? – Hetta knelt down and picked up the offering. 

Artichoke.  Garlic flakes.  Roasted in a fine 1921 cabernet.  Still warm.

The dogs made some snuffling noises behind her, indicating that Will was finally coming up behind her (he was 13 minutes late leaving for work today). 

There was a pause behind her and then Will’s hand at her elbow, helping her stand back up.  She offered him the plate and he sniffed it, inhaling the aroma of a delicacy like none other.

“Please say it’s for me?” she asked him desperately.  “And do you smell the faintest hints of cocoa?”

Will opened his startling blue eyes, glanced down at the plate and then gazed at the scene in front of the house.  “Good God,” he whispered, “I think the Chesapeake Ripper is in love with you.”

“So it is for me?” she demanded, looking down at the plate with longing.  “I really want to eat her heart out.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face.  “I think that’s the point.”

A smile crept onto her face that she could no longer hide. “I wonder who he is.”

“Eat it,” he told her.  “I’ll give you roughly twenty minutes” (she could tell he was looking at his watch) “before I call this in.  You need to have the heart completely eaten by the time they get here, and the plate devoid of any genetic material.”

She sighed.  Hetta knew he was right.  In a better world, she would have time to savour this delicacy.  This, though, was not a better world, even if it was devoid of Voldemort. 

That didn’t have to mean, however, that Hetta couldn’t enjoy the roasted heart within the time constraints.

“Nineteen minutes,” Will told her.

She startled and without another thought, she hurried into the house to find proper utensils.  As she ate the succulent flesh, Hetta wasn’t thinking about séances or murder tableaus, only that someone out there seemed to understand her and like her just as she was.

When the FBI arrived roughly fifty minutes later, the plate scrubbed of fingerprints and placed in the dead girl’s lap, Hetta kept on having to think of a world where every day involved horrible Christmas carols to keep the smile of her face.

She only slipped for a half a moment, when her eyes met those, strangely, of Dr. Lecter who had been called in (didn’t he say he was a surgeon?  Or something?  Perhaps he was there to determine the surgical method, and wasn’t that attractive?) … and she thought how delightful it would be to be able to do a full autopsy on the corpse in different circumstances.

V.

They said a Dr. Abel Gideon was the Ripper, and that he had been incarcerated for several years at Baltimore State Hospital.

Hetta asked Will about it one day, casually, when she was frying up the liver of a man who cheated on his wife far too many times for anyone’s liking…

“No,” Will confirmed.  “He’s not the Ripper.  Freddie Lounds got it wrong.”

“Huh,” Hetta remarked, remembering the name from several years earlier.  “She a witch?”

“With a ‘B’,” Will replied, dead on.

The cousins started giggling a moment later.

“So?  What’s going on then?” Hetta asked as they finished their evening meal, the dogs getting a few choice scraps.  “Who’s leaving me all these lovely little gifts?”

And they were lovely.  The latest had been the skull of a virgin who had been burnt at the stake.  Hetta didn’t know how the Ripper knew, how he could possibly know.  She’d only learned the truth after multiple tarot readings and contacting the spirit plane.

Will looked into his glass of bourbon and cocked a half grin, “The future Mr. Hetta Potter?”

“Haha,” she laughed.  “But, no.  I looked at a photograph of Abel Gideon and he’s completely wrong.  He has no imagination.  He wouldn’t know how to properly drown the nicest of cats before a proper resurrection.”

“No,” Will agreed.  “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before Mr. Potter”—and that was going to be an in joke, wasn’t it?—“reveals himself to you.”

“It better not be much longer.  I have to the Ministry Ball next month and everyone I hate is bound to be there.”

“Mass murder is so wonderfully fashionable at the moment,” Will teased.

That only caused Hetta to giggle into her wine glass.

VI.

Of course, it wasn’t all fun and games, Will thought to himself bitterly.  With Abel Gideon’s miraculous self-revelation that he was the Chesapeake Ripper (“no, Jack,” Will insisted, “the tableau at my house was the Ripper, not a copycat,” not that Jack listened), Will was now in the presence of Dr. Frederick Chilton.

For some reason the man thought he needed to be studied.  The intellectual community needed to be aware of his singular peculiarities.

He grimaced at the man.  “Because personal rights and freedoms mean nothing, of course.”

Chilton only smiled more, clearly amused that Will believes he has rights to his own mind. 

Will thinks that perhaps getting Hetta to make a voodoo doll of Chilton might be less productive, but more amusing in the long run.  However, this was not quite the time to indulge in such musings.  “But, as I said, Jack, the latest tableau was the Ripper.”

“You said,” Jack countered, “that it was intended as a courting gift to your cousin of all people.  Psychopaths—even intelligent psychopaths—can’t feel love.”

“Such is our understanding of them,” Hannibal Lecter put in, “but I think you are underestimating the full blown-out delusion of the man who left the tableau at the Graham property.  He could delude himself into believing that he’s in love.”

Alana is watching him with those perturbed brown eyes.  She’s always so curious.  Always so understanding of other people’s needs as she (and only she) understands them.  It’s forced empathy and inaccurate empathy.  It would be laughable (and Hetta has laughed at her expense) if Will didn’t find so downright insulting to his own mental talents.

After Hetta met Alana the first time, she’d called it “misempathy” as a bit of joke.

Of course, that was years ago… and Alana had been under the impression (an impression that Hetta fully encouraged and Will decided not to refute) that Hetta was his emo girlfriend.

“Your cousin is staying with you?” she asked half an hour later, when Jack and Chilton were arguing—yet again.

“You remember,” he teased lightly, trying to come off as passive, “Hetta.”

Her eyes widened slightly.  “You’re dating your cousin?”

Unfortunately, her harsh whisper cut through and everyone stopped talking to them and looked over.  Quickly thinking what response to have, he decided he might as well rev her up a bit.  She could be sanctimonious, and Hetta would enjoy it if Alana somehow staged an impromptu (and unwanted) heart-to-heart.  “Are you making a judgment call on my relationship with my aunt’s sister’s ex-boyfriend’s stepson’s only child?”  


At this, Alana looked like she’d been caught in headlights.  Served her right.  That was only one of the ways they were connected through the Blacks.  The Black family, like many (but not all) pureblood lines, crossed over with many others and relationships were complicated at best through familial connections, previous marriages, and adoptions. 

He looked over at Chilton, who looked more intrigued than baffled … which was interesting.

“So, let’s talk to Abel Gideon, who thinks he’s the Ripper.”

“He is the Ripper, Mr. Graham, I assure you,” Chilton said smugly.

And – just like that – Chilton was uninteresting again.

He was so uninteresting that Will held his gaze just to mess with him.  He felt a calculating look come from elsewhere –not Alana, she couldn’t be calculating if she tried—but from perhaps Jack or even Dr. Lecter, but didn’t remove his gaze from Chilton for not the slightest moment.

He was grateful, two hours later when he finally got to leave the godforsaken place, that Chilton thought that he had been flirting.  A hand reached over to touch his hip, and without looking Will reached over, ran a finger up the horrible plaid of Chilton’s clothed arm, and extracted a stray piece of hair.

It went unnoticed by the others, for which Will was grateful.

Chilton was slime, and not in a complimentary way.  He was so ordinary and desperate that he gave Will toothache.

And, well, it wasn’t his fault that some people just lacked imagination in their groping if they thought that mutual touch meant mutual attraction.

VII.

Hetta was not feeling remotely guilty when she found a plate (sans tableau) of what might certainly be scrambled brains, somehow newly warmed.  She’d been upstairs taking a bath (or, well, giving a voodoo doll some lessons in waterboarding) and hadn’t heard a car drive up.

Without magic there was no way that someone on foot could have brought the offering.

She also had multiple protection wards, including an anti-Apparition ward, on the property so it wasn’t that.  Whoever brought her this latest sumptuous feast had done so without the use of magic.

She sat down at the kitchen table and let the dogs snuffle around her, petting them absently with her manicured fingers.

Perhaps it was time to replace Hedwig, she thought absently.  She hadn’t really needed an owl, but perhaps she could get in contact with her admirer via owl post. 

About half eight she got a text from Will saying he was on the scene of a crime and it seemed the victim was missing a brain.

Hetta smiled to herself and went to wash the plate, fine-boned china, 16th century, certainly.  If she hadn’t let her fingers trace the smooth surface, her fingers might not have caught a tiny note that was taped to the back of the plate.

She pealed it off the bottom and unfolded it in expectation.

The script was elegant, perfect, the sort of calligraphy only purebloods who were disciplined in the art from an early age could pull off.  The message was simple, a rhyme, no name attached. 

She quirked a smile, “Oh,” she murmured, “I think ‘she loves me,’ certainly.  Silly man.”

It was only later that night she realized she’d left the voodoo doll face down in the upstairs sink that hadn’t properly drained.

When the paper came the next morning (and, yes, Hetta was old fashioned that way; she didn’t own a computer or a tablet and she liked knowing what was happening in the world) she saw that news that one Frederick Chilton had inexplicably drowned in his office at Baltimore State.

Fetching a pair of scissors, she clipped the article and put it in her trunk along with the note from the Ripper.

The words “She loves me, She loves me not” stared up at her and she laughed to herself, thinking that she thought her mutual admiration was obvious.

After all, she ate every human sacrifice he served her. 

It was almost as if he were worshipping her from afar, a humble servant to her every whim.

… but Hetta wasn’t like other women.  She was accustomed to the fluctuating admiration and hatred from the wizarding world.  She knew misunderstanding and had learned from a young age how to hide her extracurricular activities.  No, what she wanted was not hollow and uninformed respect.

She wanted something far dearer.

If she had to put it a name to it (a thought which frightened her), Hetta just might call it love.

VIII.

“No,” Will refused for the first time, not looking at Jack.  “I knew the victim, and I don’t see what I can say about a drowning in a room that didn’t even have a bottle of water in it.”

Jack huffed, clearly annoyed.  “I need you to look.”

“No,” Will repeated, wondering if he should keep track of just how many times he used the word in this conversation.  “I’m technically a consultant.  This is one I’m not consulting on.”

There was a pause, and then Jack’s deep voice rumbled, “You sound guilty.”

Looking up at Jack’s hard face, Will didn’t bother to hide his surprise.  (After all, he had told Hetta to play a little with the doll, not actually commit murder.  He was hardly responsible his cousin seemed to get lovesick over the Ripper – again – although he didn’t seem to have reached out again, as far as Will knew). “Wasn’t he killed yesterday afternoon?  I was at a crime scene!  You were there.”

Toeing the carpet, Jack at least looked ashamed.  “I need you, Graham.”

“No,” Will repeated.  “I have a date.  I’m a consultant.  I have the ability to refuse.”

And with that, he just up and left, a little amused that Jack seemed shocked that he had a date.  Not that it was romantic.  No, this was more of a murder date, if anything.

Will hated being predictable, but some people just demanded it.

IX.

She was beautiful, it was obvious.  He could also tell that she wasn’t remotely sexually attracted to him.

They had met by accident.  She was going into Dr. Lecter’s office while he was coming out.  They had chatted a couple of times, she had dropped by once when Hetta had been out daydreaming about the Ripper while sitting in a tree, looking at photographic portraits of the dead – and they’d had a bourbon.

Margot never seemed to want anything, just someone to call her own, which he supposed he could relate to.

If he didn’t have Aunt Morticia when he was younger, Will would have ended up damaged… broken… unable to fully understand his lineage or his impulses and controlled by common morality, of all things.

“You look nice,” he complimented, not making eye contact.

“Thanks,” she smiled, or at least he thought she did.  “Look, I was going to just take what I needed, but I can tell that’s the wrong way to go with you… and I heard a rumor.”

He huffed, wondering what exactly she was getting at.  “Rumor?”

“You have a girlfriend?”

He tried to suppress a laugh.  “That’s been going around a great deal.  My second cousin’s half brother’s niece played a trick on someone by letting them think she was my girlfriend, and not my little cousin who’s crashing on my couch.”  Well, that wasn’t technically true.  Hetta had brought along a coffin and slept in that, when she slept at all.

Margot seemed relieved.  “That makes this easier.  I need a baby,” she told him flatly.

Will was so surprised he looked her in the eyes and read them fully.  He felt her hurt, breathed her desperation, her want for a child and someone of her own coursing through his veins.

“I was going to seduce you,” she told him, “but this could be a partnership.  I also wouldn’t want to cuckhold another woman.”  She looked away, clearly uncomfortable.  “I’m not that much of a bitch.”

Sitting back, Will nodded at the server when they brought his bourbon, a nicer label than he usually drank based off of the aroma, though Margot had clearly taken his tastes into account. 

A child, a little Addams with curling hair and Margot’s self-assurance.

“I need a son, to be precise.  For the property to stay in my family if … my brother is out of the picture.”

At this, Will’s brain went into hyperdrive.  “So you need to give birth to son—”

“A Verger boy,” she clarified, which definitely a stipulation of property inheritance.

“Before anything could accidentally happen to your brother?”  His voice was calm, assured, and he made eye contact with her.  He saw everything he needed to.  “How do you feel about London?”

“Sorry?”  She was a little confused.

“Well,” he reasoned, “we need to keep you safe before the birth.  What if that monster of a brother finds out?”

She breathed out of her nose.  “I suppose I could take a shopping trip that could just extend—nearly indefinitely—”

“My thoughts exactly,” he grinned, his eyes cutting to the menu for the first time.  “Do you want to do this the natural way or should I make a donation?”  His bright blue eyes flickered up to her.  “And how do you feel about the name ‘Nigel’? I had a great-great-uncle’s half-cousin who had the name Phineas Nigellus, and I rather like it.”

At this, Margo took a generous sip of her white wine and then laughed, full-throated and unadulterated in her joy.  “If you give me a Verger boy, you can name him whatever you damn want.”

And so a deal was struck.

X.

It was nearly four months later that Will received a text on his phone and smiled, looking up at Hetta, who was sitting crosslegged on the floor and throwing runestones. 

“It’s done.  Success all around.”

“Sorry?” Hetta wasn’t paying attention.  She was trying to figure out how to meet her ardent admirer… who seemed to be killing and feeding her organs from her other admirers.  Already four members of pureblood society back in London were found dead and missing organs and three prominent American Muggles.

Hetta had never been so well-fed, loved, and utterly baffled with her inability to learn who the Ripper was.

“Margot. She’s at Grimmauld.  Thanks, by the way, for getting it de-magicked.”

“Anything for you,” she responded on autopilot. 

If she thought about it, she would realize she didn’t know who Margot was, what the success actually was, and why Will even wanted to lend Grimmauld Place to a Muggle.

However, Hetta wasn’t thinking of it.

Swiping the runes away from her so that they scattered, she cursed under her breath.

“Hetta?” Will asked, confused, at her outburst.

“Who is he?”

Will was clearly confused for a moment and then realization hit.  “Mr. Hetta Potter.”

“Yes, Mr. Hetta Potter.  I want to meet him, see if he’s as positively marvelous as he seems, but he’s content to watch me flounder.”

“You could,” Will suggested carefully, putting down his phone, “go on a trip or something?”

“Why?” Hetta asked in confusion.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.  I can contact you if anything turns up.”

Hetta looked at him carefully.  “You won’t—eat—anything meant for me?”

Will walked over and kissed the top of her curly hair, Hetta once again shocked by how much they looked like twins despite hardly (if really at all) being related to each other.  Magic did strange things, she mused, her stray thought catching in his eye.  “Never, darling,” he promised.  “Just let me know if you go to Grimmauld, so I can warn Margot.”

Confused, Hetta realized she wasn’t entirely certain who Margot was, not that it mattered.  A friend of any Black or Addams, was a friend of hers, this Margot included.

“Florence is nice this time of year,” she agreed after a moment.  Nodding, the idea was settled in her mind.

Less than half an hour later, she was on her way to an international floo point, trunk packed, and magical passport in her bag.

XI.

Two days later, Will heard a scream outside and rushed out, wearing nothing but his boxers and a white wife beater.

Alana, beautiful yet incompetent Alana, was wrapped up in an orange peacoat, her painted lips open in shock as her eyes stared at…

Following her gaze, Will saw a plate of what appeared to be smashed lung ground with nutmeg—or something equally as unidentifiable to anyone but an Addams.

A little wavering noise escaped Alana and Will looked up, excuse already on his lips:

“It’s for the dogs.  You now I make all their food by hand.”

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded.  “Sorry.  I don’t know why—it’s just with all the Ripper cases, I suppose my brain is making unwarranted connections.”

Not so unwarranted, clearly, Will thought, picking up the plate and turning to go into the house.  He left the door open so Alana might follow if she absolutely had to.

He put the plate down on the counter, grabbed his old phone and snapped a photograph, quickly sending it to Hetta, who would want to know without delay.

After putting it down and turning, he wasn’t quite expecting Alana to kiss him.  It had been—out of nowhere.  When she pulled back, several excruciating seconds later, Will wondered if she had a habit of kissing men when they were only in their underwear.  It was a little disconcerting.  Although he and Margot were not together, they had agreed to make a go of it in a platonic relationship for the sake of their unborn child.

Will knew all too well what it was like to have an absentee parent (one physically and one emotionally).  He didn’t want that for his kid (or kids, if they had a girl the first time).  Also, if Margot reacted badly to the Addams Family traditions, being married would guarantee him rights to his children he might not otherwise have. 

And, at the very least, Margot wouldn’t want the scandal.  A husband was a different animal than a sperm donor.  (Will didn’t like to think about himself as a cold-heart pragmatist, but even he couldn’t deny the advantages.)

The only reason they weren’t already married is that Margot didn’t want it on record for Mason’s army of lawyers to find.  Mason (and the lawyers) thought she was getting a spa treatment in Switzerland.

Will must have thought for too long, expression blank, half-naked in the kitchen, because Alana was closing her eyes and leaning in again.

Quickly snapping back to the situation, Will pushed her away, his hands firmly on her shoulders.

“Alana, I’m with someone.”

“Your cousin,” Alana agreed firmly.  “Where is she, then?  I’m beginning to think she’s a beard.”

Will took a deep breath.  Of all the times for Alana to realize that his relationship with Hetta was entirely platonic… This was just inconvenient.

“I am with someone,” he told her firmly again, “Committed.  Monogamous.” (For now, for stability, and not to confuse anything before everything was final with the inheritance.). “What gave you the idea–?”  He couldn’t even quite finish his thought because it was baffling.

She took a deep breath and pressed closer, clearly about to speak—or kiss him again.

“No,” he reaffirmed, wondering how this was becoming his byline for anyone and everyone.  “I told you—”

“I looked her up,” Alana began quickly.  “Your cousin, Hetta Potter.”

Grinding his teeth.  “Well, then.  You know she’s a highly eligible and wealthy woman.  You should also realize that she’s been a part of my life for years and this,” (he didn’t even bother to gesture between them as he was still holding her away from him) “is inappropriate.”

“We have a connection,” she tried again.  “I’m a grown, mature woman.”  Alana unfortunately stuck her breasts out, clearly trying to attract him.

Will was disgusted and couldn’t figure out why she was pushing this.  “I’m not interested,” he told her firmly.  “I never have been.  You also have a professional interest in me, so this is unethical.”

His phone beeped and he was grateful.

He released Alana and looked at his screen.  Hetta wanted to know if there was a note underneath the plate, which surprised him, since he wasn’t aware that the Ripper was leaving notes.

Well, that was certainly a positive development.

Glancing up, he saw that Alana was clearly annoyed (though trying not to be) as she waited.  “We done?” he asked harshly.

“Will, you can’t just-”

“Yeah, I can,” he interrupted, not letting her finish, because he was done with this conversation.  “We’re going to pretend that this didn’t happen.”  He didn’t add the barb that she was now certainly not invited to his wedding.  He and Margot didn’t have a date yet, he hadn’t even told Hetta most (if really any) of the story, and it was on the downlow.

When Alana didn’t leave immediately, he looked up and stared her down, clearly frightening her.

He was aware growing up that his gaze could terrify (and wasn’t that just wonderful?) and always put it to good use as a cop in New Orleans.  He tried it once on a trainee, Miriam Lass if he remembered, and she had not only wet herself but had quit the Academy the next day.

Alana swallowed audibly and then left.  He waited until he heard her pull out before going and locking the door.

Going back to the kitchen, he lifted the plate, careful not to dislodge the meal, and looked underneath for a note.  He found it easily and pealed it off, noting the smooth paper and the elegant calligraphy.  It looked familiar but he couldn’t quite place it at first… until he remembered receiving a dinner invitation with the same handwriting.

The plate dropped from his hand smashed on the counter, causing him to jump back in fright.

A few moments later, when he processed the information, a manic smile curled on his face.

This could be quite fun indeed…

XII.

Sometimes Hetta absolutely hated modern Muggle technology.

It had been eight minutes since Will had sent her a photograph of the absolutely beautifully prepared lung, and he still hadn’t responded to her question.

Then, another twenty-three minutes after that (what was taking him so long?  Hetta was ready to start testing magical vaccines on unsuspecting Muggles if he kept this up) she received a single line:

“Would you like Mr. Hetta Potter gift-wrapped?  Expect him in less than forty-eight hours, if he knows what’s good for him.”

This was cause for celebration.  Perhaps she should go dig up some heretic’s grave and rebury him in holy ground… yes, that sounded quite lovely.

XIII.

It was during business hours, so Will decided to go to Dr. Lecter’s office.  He knew he was going to disrupt everyone’s schedule with his revelation, but he was a little impatient.

“You know,” he greeted despite the fact that some woman he’d never met (early forties, two of her three children weren’t her husband’s and yet she was worried that he had a woman on the side, day drinker) when Dr. Lecter opened the door, “usually when a man wants to marry a girl from a traditional family, he should ask permission from her closest male relative.”

At first, a smooth look of utter blankness crossed Dr. Lecter’s face, before a slightly pleased smile crossed his face.

“She liked it, then,” he commented, accent rich, giving nothing away, admitting little, always probing.

The other patient (underwear a size too small to entice her husband) gasped, but neither Dr. Lecter nor Will looked at her.

“Hetta would have if she weren’t in Florence.—avoiding unwanted suitors.”

There was the slightest pinch at the side of Dr. Lecter’s left eye, which Will barely caught because he was looking at Hannibal’s cheekbone.

“So,” Will continued, nonplussed, “are you going to ask?”

A tilt to his head, and Hannibal looked at the patient.  “Would you excuse me for five minutes, Mrs. Jones?”

The woman—Mrs. Jones (not for much longer, divorce imminent, nine months before papers filed on the outside)—nodded, her lower lip quivering.

Will followed Dr. Lecter into the office, the man ever polite, but didn’t bother to sit in the provided chair.  He rarely did, if truth be told. 

“Cannibalism,” Will opened with as soon as Dr. Lecter closed the door behind them.  He shook his head, “I should have guessed, really.  Few Americans have the stomach to practice it.  Only the truly old European families still do.”

“Then what is your excuse?”  Dr. Lecter inquired.

“I rarely indulge,” Will admitted.  “I don’t like empathizing with my food.  Hetta, however, is quite another matter altogether.”

Taking in a deep breath, Dr. Lecter seemed to center himself.  “Why are you here, Will?”

“Because she loves you,” Will told him point blank.  “I told her to take a trip to make your heart grow fonder, but that’s when I had no idea who you were.  If you want to get the girl, you shouldn’t keep her waiting.”

Crimson eyes looked at him, assessing, and Will had no trouble looking back, seeing the unapologetic relief and yet deep-rooted longing for another soul to know him rooted in Dr. Lecter’s gaze.  “I have your consent?”

“You have my blessing,” Will clarified.  “You’re going to have to ask Uncle Gomez for consent.”

Something like relief (but not quite) washed over Hannibal’s face and he nodded.  When he exited the door (clearly forgetting-or not caring-about Mrs. Jones or any other patient), Will smiled to himself.

It looked like Aunt Morticia didn’t just have his wedding to plan… but she also had Hetta’s.

He didn’t bother to lock up when he left, more because he was amused at the thought of Mrs. Jones peeking her head through the door in about half an hour than anything else.

THE END.

Published by excentrykemuse

Fanfiction artist and self critic.

4 thoughts on “The Wendigo’s Secret Crush

  1. Now I kind of want to see how Hannibal would deal with her errant suitors…and what the Addams Family version of the shovel talk would be (AKA Gomez and Hannibal have a lovely chat over a spot of murder)

    Like

... leave a message for excentrykemuse.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: