Wendigo’s Secret Crush: The Sequel

Title: Wendigo’s Secret Crush: The Sequel
Author: ExcentrykeMuse

Fandom(s): Harry Potter Series / Hannibal Extended Universe / The Addams Family
Pairing(s): Hannibal Lecter / Fem!Harry Potter

WordCount: 1k
Written: 6 March, 2023
Rating: PG-13

Warning(s): rule 63, cannibalism, bad psychiatry
Prompt: for Emily G Peacock who wanted a sequel/one-shot to my Harry Potter/Hannibal/Addams Family fic where their son or daughter goes to Hogwarts and causes havoc

I.

It was all so terribly dull, Hetta thought to herself, as she magically set the table for dinner.  Hannibal was having one of his dinner parties and was serving questionable body parts to people who were supposedly his friends.  Hannibal did so enjoy his dinner parties.  Hetta rather detested them.  What was the point of eating a human heart if you didn’t know?  Or a liver, for that matter?

At least a woman named Candace was currently occupying the basement.  Hetta did so hope that they kept her alive while feasting on her internal organs.

A flutter at the window caused Hetta to look up and she saw an owl.  She sighed.  She hoped it wasn’t one of her adoring fans again.  If it was, she’d have to send them a severed hand—without the skin, of course.  Hetta couldn’t have it being traced back to her via fingerprints.

She opened the window and let the bird in and plucked the letter from its leg.

Official Hogwarts seal.  Interesting.

She opened the letter and began to read it.

When Hannibal came home to the office, he found Hetta dressed in a negligee, sipping wine and blowing bubbles off the end of her wand.

“My darling,” he greeted, leaning down to kiss his wife.  “Not that I’m not appreciative, but we have guests arriving in half an hour.”

Hetta brandished the letter at him.

He picked it up, brows furrowed, and read.  “Oh that little demon,” he complimented with glee.

“She’s your daughter,” Hetta reminded him as she stood, preparing to go upstairs and change.  “You can explain to Headmaster Flitwick why Hannelore tried to eat Lacy Nott’s foot with it still attached.”

“Hanni does so enjoy fresh meat,” Hannibal hummed happily, folding the letter and putting it in his breast pocket.  “My dear, the guests will be here soon and there are bubbles everywhere.”

“So?” she asked him with a grin before scampering up the stairs with him hot on her heels.

II.

Hannibal was with a patient when the owl came one Thursday.  The man reminded him somewhat of Franklyn Froideaux, at least physically, though he was fortunately not as neurotic.  Hannibal was drawing the lines of his wife’s hands—though ostensibly he was taking notes—when he heard the tap tap tap at the window.

Glancing up, he closed his notebook and looked toward the window.

“Excuse me,” he murmured.  “This will take but a moment.”

The pudgy little man stopped talking instantly and watched, wide-eyed, as Hannibal walked to the window and retrieved a barn owl.

Taking the letter from the bird, Hannibal saw the crest was of the House of Lecter, and slid it into his breast pocket.  It was undoubtedly from his daughter, Hannelore, who was in her fifth year at Hogwarts.  With an apologetic smile, Hannibal sat back down and gave his patient an open look, which was meant to put him at ease. In truth, Hannibal was imagining whether or not Hetta would like his eyeballs glazed or poached for breakfast the next morning.  What a happy little fantasy.

When the patient was gone, Hannibal set aside his notebook, looked over his calendar, sat down at his desk, and opened the letter.

Hannelore had beautiful script and what she was telling him should not have been a complete surprise.  She was, after all, fifteen.  This was the age when she would get her first boyfriend.  But did his father have to be a law-wizard?  It would simply break her mother’s heart!

“The law is perfectly respectable,” Hannibal argued over dinner later that evening.  He knew he was meant to be the reasonable parent.  He, after all, was a psychiatrist.  The fact that he intentionally drove his patients to psychosis and suicide was another matter entirely.  “It’s not as if Hanni is going to marry this boy.”

“How do we know that?” Hetta asked as she sliced her human-steak beautifully.  “Ron Weasley married Hermione Granger and they were sweet on each other since the third year!”

Hannibal’s mouth soured.  “Our child is not a Weasley and we are certainly not dentists,” he reminded her as calmly as he could.  “Perhaps Hannelore’s next boyfriend will have a father who’s an exorcist.”

Grumbling, Hetta muttered, “One can only hope.”

III.

Hetta was beside herself when she got the letter.  Hogwarts was having a Yule Ball and Hannelore was going with the law-wizard’s son.  “It’s not like he’s a pleasant vampire who will spike the punch with her!” she complained to her Addams cousin, Will Graham.  “He apparently is respectable.”

“Your husband is entirely respectable,” Will reminded her helpfully.

She glared at him.  “That is not the point.”

“That is entirely the point,” Will told her as he got up from his couch, hopped over three of his eight dogs, and went to his shelf.  “Hannibal completely surprised both of us.  This boy might do the same.  What’s his name?”

“I don’t recall,” Hetta muttered.

Will only rolled his eyes.  Making his way through more dogs, he picked up the letter from his goddaughter and three times cousin twice-removed, Hannelore, and quickly scanned through it.  “Oh, that’s so sweet.  He thinks she looks lovely in pink.”

“What idiot thinks a woman looks lovely in pink?” Hetta asked no one in particular.

“Scorpius Malfoy apparently.  Wait—Malfoy,” Will thought.  “Didn’t a Draco Malfoy try to court you?”

“Yes,” Hetta agreed.  “And little good it did him.  He wouldn’t know the difference between a pancreas and a brain.”

Will chuckled at that.

The cousins fell into silence.

“He’s probably blond,” Hetta murmured.

“Hannelore is blonde,” Will reminded her.

“They’ll have blonde, cannibalistic children,” Hetta mused happily.

“Think, you can force Draco Malfoy to eat finger sandwiches at the wedding,” Will suggested off-hand, delighting Hetta quite a bit.

“I suppose it can’t be all bad,” she murmured.

“No, I don’t suppose it can,” Will—the reasonable one, who never had quite gotten over his encephalitis—agreed.

The End.