Thirteen

Title: Thirteen
Author: ExcentrykeMuse
Fandom(s): Harry Potter Series / Hannibal Extended Universe
Pairing(s): Harry Potter/Hannibal Lecter
Word Count: 2k
Rating: PG

Warning(s): mention of murder, mention of cannibalism, pureblood culture
Prompt: for Emily G Peacock: “I’m pretty sure you’ve seen my requests for Hannibal/Harry pairings  I was rereading some of your Pureblood Society fics and now I’m thinking of how Hannibal would be able to woo one of your Pureblood Harry characters. I’m sure you can come up with something amazing”

It was the thirteenth day and Lecter was sitting on a bench reading The Daily Prophet.  Sipping from a disposal coffee cup, he enjoyed the flavor of Earl Grey Tea with a hint of honey.  The sound of a door opening caught his attention, and he glanced up, only to see that someone was entering Number Nine.

He went back to The Daily Prophet. 

A policeman walked by, looking down at Lecter, and just walked on.

Lecter had been sitting there since six in the morning, and he would continue to sit there until lunchtime at one o’clock. 

Some more pedestrians past him.  If they noticed Lecter, Lecter didn’t notice them. 

At twenty past ten, a woman in robes approached the bench, and Lecter folded up his paper and stood fluidly.  He was impeccably dressed in a waistcoat, tailored trousers, shirtsleeves, and a jacket.  If you looked at him, you might think he was an eccentrically dressed Muggle.  However, if you were to look more closely, you would notice that Lecter Lecter was dressed like an impeccably pureblood wizard, sans robes.

“You’re still here,” Hermione Granger griped as she came level to the bench.  She looked at Lecter and then at the row of houses.  “You know he can just floo in and out.”

Lecter nodded.  “I am aware of the concept of a floo, Madam.”

She huffed at him.

He reached into his breast pocket and produced a parchment letter and presented it to her.  “If you would be so kind?  My owl is having difficulties.”

Taking the letter, Hermione looked at the direction: “The Man at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.”

Hermione sighed.  “You do realize it’s unplottable, Mr.—”

He tisked at her.  “Surely you must know I’m a pureblood.”

She rolled her eyes.  “Monsieur—”

“Dr.,” he produced a business card, “Hannibal Lecter the Eighth.”

“You purebloods and your numbers,” she muttered under her breath as she took his business card.  Then, seeing something, her eyebrows shot up and she asked, “Baltimore, Maryland?  Travel much, Dr. Lecter?”

He smiled serenely at her. 

She took him in for several long minutes.  “Dr. Lecter, this pursuit is not at all unusual.  It is merely a nuisance.”

“Your friend is uncommonly beautiful and powerful,” Lecter agreed, “which must gain many admirers.  I, however, am not a usual or simply a casual admirer.”

Hermione made a squeaking noise at the word beautiful.  “He’s male!” she told him plainly.

“Madam,” Lecter told her, “I realize you yourself are not a pureblood, but gender is not an obstacle among those of us who have lived in the wizarding world for several generations.”

Hermione’s brown eyes widened.  Then she tried to visibly calm herself.  “Look, everyone is waiting for—our friend—to get back together with Ginny Weasley.  It is only a matter of time.”

Lecter regarded her carefully.  “Are those his wishes or yours?  Will you at least give him the letter?”  His eyes shone almost red as he regarded her.  “Or are you a postal thief?”

“I am not!” she began but then she seemed to visibly cool as if reciting numbers or some other technique in her head.  Her eyes flashed open.  “I will give him the letter.  I cannot promise he won’t throw it into the fire.”

Tilting his head toward her, Lecter resumed his seat on the bench, picking up his paper.

Hermione had been summarily dismissed and she clearly looked put out.  Still she put the letter in her pocket and walked on to between Numbers Eleven and Thirteen, and then disappeared, just like Lecter knew she would. 

He didn’t know her name.  He had never asked it.  She was of inferior birth and she was simply a means to an end.  If she proved particularly important to the object of his affections, he would apply all of the Lecter Charm on her, but until then he would sit here on his bench, drinking his tea.

When she didn’t come out again, he supposed she had taken the floo out.

He was just folding up his paper and preparing to leave, when he felt the magical shift of someone coming out of what he supposed was Number Twelve, and the most beautiful boy he had ever seen walked out into the street.

He couldn’t be more than twenty, with messy black hair, sharp green eyes, and high cheek bones.  The boy was casually dressed in pureblood black—meaning he was wearing black trousers and a long-sleeved black shirt despite the heat of the day—belying his pureblood background.

Lecter stood in a graceful motion, setting aside his paper, and waited for the boy to make his intentions known. 

The boy hesitated about four feet from him, so Lecter took a step closer and gave him a polite smile.  “I was hoping you would come out today.”

“Haven’t you hoped that every day?” the boy asked.

“Thirteen is a particularly auspicious number in the Lecter household,” he told him firmly.  “You could almost say we are superstitious with the number thirteen.”

The boy looked at him politely.

“I am Hannibal Lecter XIII,” Lecter introduced, bowing formally, “and I should very much like to take you to tea.”

“At the Wicked Stepmother,” the boy checked.

“Indeed.”

“How do you know I’ll get in?  There is the popular opinion that my mother was a Muggleborn.”

Lecter looked at him in astonishment.  “I only have to look at you to know you’re a pureblood.”

The boy looked at him for a long moment.  “You don’t know who I am.”  It was a statement, rather than a question.

“I do not,” Lecter agreed.

Something crossed the boy’s eyes, and then he held out his hand.  “Harrigan,” he introduced himself.

Lecter picked up the hand and lifted it up to just beneath his lips—never touching—and then dropped it gently.

Harrigan looked at him in confusion but let it pass. 

“I am told by your associate it is only a matter of time before you get together with a Miss Ginny Weasley—” Lecter checked, taking in Harrigan’s tall form.

He snorted.  “It’s wishful thinking on their part.  They think now that the war’s over, I should act the way they expect me to.”  Harrigan shrugged. 

“I merely wished to know if I had competition for your affections,” Lecter elucidated.  He approached Harrigan carefully and reached up to touch the side of your face.  “I am a very jealous lover.”

Harrigan’s breath hitched.  “Does that make you a passionate lover?” he asked carefully.

Lecter smiled to himself.  He leaned down to whisper in Harrigan’s ear, “Very,” he agreed. 

Harrigan leaned back and held up his hand to show a vined ring crawling up his middle finger.  It was made of sapphires and rubies, a delicate and clearly expensive piece.  “Beware of my virtue, Dr. Lecter.”

Taking his hand, Lecter admitted, “I have seen these in vogue here in Europe.  Not so much in America.”

“It saves me,” Harrigan told him plainly, “from attempts to compromise me by—witches,” here the word was twisted and ugly, “such as Ginny Weasley.  You’d be surprised.”  His green eyes sparkled.

Lecter looked down adoringly at this young wizard.  “You’re quite clever, aren’t you?”

He shrugged one shoulder.  “I try, Dr. Lecter.”

They agreed to meet later that afternoon at The Wicked Stepmother.  Harrigan wasn’t dressed for it, and what Lecter was wearing was barely respectable.  Lecter arrived early in his flamboyantly maroon and purple robes and reserved the table.  As it was a Wednesday, there were a few still available.  He supplied his card, a deep mauve, and was shown to his table ten minutes before Harrigan was set to arrive.

He knew the moment that Harrigan set foot in the club.  There was a hummed silence and then everyone began talking at once. 

The maître d’ showed Harrigan to their table, and Lecter was aware that everyone was staring directly at the two of them.

“You must have had something to do with their little war,” Lecter surmised as he urged Harrigan to choose their tea.

“Little?  Our war wasn’t little?”

“It was in the Americas,” Lecter told him plainly.  “It didn’t even touch Lithuania.”

Harrigan looked up with his green eyes.  “Your accent.  Your family is Lithuanian.”

“We’re titled there,” Lecter told him.  “Since I followed tradition, my eldest son is Count Hannibal the Ninth.”

“You already have an heir,” Harrigan murmured.

“I am a widower of a Japanese witch,” Lecter informed him.  “Our son is here at Eton before he goes to Ilvmorny next year.  I’m here on a visit.”  His eyes looked at him.  “This need not concern you if it bothers you—”

“I have a godson,” Harrigan told him.  “He lives with me and is my heir.”

Lecter nodded.  They both had no need of a wife then.  They were already provided for.  Lector had Hanni and Harrigan had his godson.  He couldn’t have planned it better.  Also, so far there was no one that he needed to kill.

He’d have to introduce Harrigan into blood magic and cannibalism slowly—

“Earl Grey,” Harrigan decided, closing the menu.  “Do you mind blood cookies?”

Lecter’s heart lodged in his throat.  “Not at all,” he promised.  “I quite enjoy the taste.”

Harrigan’s eyes lit up. 

Of course, the attention on their table never ebbed.  Harrigan seemed immune to it, showing he was used to the constant attention.

“Although my ancestral home is in Lithuania,” he told Harrigan, “I haven’t been there since I was a small boy.  I lived in Paris as a young man and then came to America.”

“And what kind of medicine do you practice?” Harrigan asked.

“Psychiatry.”

Harrigan paused.  “Muggle?”

“Indeed.  It’s fascinating to manipulate the Muggle mind.”  The last he said as a test, but Harrigan only blinked and let the statement stand.

“The war,” he said, “has only been over for three years.  I haven’t quite found my place in the world yet.  There’s the obvious—go into the Ministry—but that’s unappealing.”

“Do you take care of your godson?” Lecter asked carefully.

“Yes,” Harrigan answered defensively.

“Then,” Lecter told him, “you are guardian of the hearth and home.”

The smile that Harrigan gave him was brilliant and Lecter felt his cold heart warm. 

After The Wicked Stepmother, they walked together down Diagon Alley, window shopping, until it was time for dinner.  They walked through London toward Grimmauld Place and between Numbers Eleven and Thirteen, Lecter ran his hand down Harrigan’s face.

“I’ve wanted to get away from England for so long,” Harrigan confessed after looking over his shoulder.  “Do you really want to take me away?”

“If you let me,” Lecter promised.

Harrigan licked his lips and nodded.  “I’ll come out at 10 o’clock tomorrow,” he promised.  And with a nod, he turned and disappeared into nothingness.

Yes, Thirteen was certainly an auspicious number for the House of Lecter.

The End.