Mastermind

Title: Mastermind
Author: ExcentrykeMuse

Pairing(s): Hannibal/Harry, (past) Harry/Ginny, (past) Harry/OFC
Fandom(s): Hannibal Extended Universe / Harry Potter Series
Word Count: 3.6k
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Amnesia, Erotomania, Lying, Muggles
Prompt: for Emily G. Peacock: It’s ok. I guess either another Hannibal/Harry fic

The day was crisp for early spring.  His Harry was wearing an oversized coat and a scarf wrapped once around his neck, his telltale glasses pushed up his nose.  Hannibal ached to capture Harry like this, standing alone on the platform, hands stuffed in his pockets, briefcase discarded to the side.  The scruff of his beard was climbing down his neck.  His Harry hadn’t shaved in at least two weeks.

Harry Potter’s car hadn’t started that morning, not that he drove to work every day.  Some days he seemed to just stay inside all day long, the lights off, only to have the lights turn on at exactly 5:34 in the evening.

Hannibal had waited more than half an hour down the lane, his Bentley parked among the trees, hidden from view, waiting for Harry to drive by on his way to work.  He had been completely surprised when Harry had ridden by on an old rusting bicycle clearly in the direction of the nearest metro station.

It is difficult following a man on bicycle while driving a car, but Hannibal was up to any challenge.

Now, forty minutes later, here they were standing on the station platform, the slight breeze picking up around their feet.

His Harry was perhaps a bit too close to the edge, but Hannibal was sitting on a bench, ostensibly reading a newspaper.  If anyone had asked, he wouldn’t have been able to tell them what the headlines read.  The newspaper was simply a prop, so that he could covertly look at his Harry.

Harry Potter lived a little outside of Baltimore in a standalone cottage.  He was single—divorced, drank too much whiskey, and had a dog named Snuffles.  He worked at Quantico as some sort of consultant for the British Government—and he had no idea that Hannibal Lecter existed.

Hannibal’s psychiatrist, one Dr. Bedelia DuMaurier, had diagnosed him with erotomania more than twelve months earlier.  Hannibal simply didn’t see it.  He had no desire to harm his Harry, had never approached him, and he certainly didn’t believe that Harry was aware of his existence—

Except for perhaps now.

Harry was looking over his shoulder at him, a flicker of worry in his green eyes.  He pushed up his glasses even further up his nose and looked back at the tracks.  He was even edging slightly away from Hannibal.

Had Hannibal been less than careful in his observation that morning of one Harry James Potter?

He lowered the paper slightly and made to turn the page.

This garnered a reaction from his Harry who shifted slightly, his briefcase falling completely to the ground.

Hannibal crossed his legs away from Harry and lifted the paper to appear more engrossed.  He was running over all his interactions with his Harry in the past forty-eight hours.

Last night he had spent the evening in the woods, on his stomach, using a set of high powered binoculars to watch Harry walk his dog.  He was certain Harry never saw him because he was happily playing with Snuffles the entire time, and neither came close enough to disturb his hiding spot.  Hannibal had patients yesterday afternoon.  At lunch, he knew Harry would have been at his desk in Quantico, and when they passed each other on the grounds of Quantico at 10:11 AM, Harry didn’t look up from looking at the ground approximately four paces ahead of him.  If Hannibal had brushed up against him, it was simply due to a weakness of needing to be near his beloved.  Could Harry have noticed then?  No, certainly not—But could he have?

Hannibal turned the page again, sighing between his teeth in his aggravation, and he heard a shuffle off to the side before a decided thump.

At first, Hannibal didn’t register the sound, but then he looked up and he couldn’t see Harry Potter anywhere.  Only his bag remained where Harry had been standing.

Terror gripped Hannibal and he jumped up from where he was sitting, discarding his worthless paper, and he approached the bag, and then took two steps further to the tracks.  He looked down and there was Harry Potter, lying on his back, his arms splayed about him.

The stomach dropped from within him, and Hannibal jumped down onto the tracks without even thinking.  His surgeon’s training taking hold, Hannibal checked for a pulse and then reached back into Harry’s uproarious curls, his fingers coming coated away with blood.

Harry was alive, but he needed to get up off of those tracks.  Pulling out his phone, Hannibal quickly dialed 9-1-1, “Yes,” he said, voice calm but a bit hurried.  “I’m at Lumly tracks.  My—My Harry has fallen onto the tracks.  He’s breathing but he’s unconscious.  I’m afraid to move him—but what if a train—?”  He looked down the tracks and didn’t see anything, but a lump rose in his throat.

He hung up just as the sound of the station alarm went off.

“Hold on, Harry,” he whispered, tracing his fingers lightly down the side of Harry’s face.  “They’re coming to get you.”

9-1-1 took less than four minutes to arrive, but every second Hannibal could hear his heart beating loudly in his ears.  He watched as the medics slid a backboard under Harry and lifted him up, never letting go of Harry’s hand. 

“We’ve got him,” one promised, “you can ride along with your—”

The medic looked at Hannibal and then down at his hand, which was sporting a gold wedding band.

Yes, Bedelia had been unhappy about that development.  She had claimed it was obsessive and delusional to believe himself committed to Harry Potter to the point where he considered himself married to his Harry—but now it was certainly coming in handy.

“My husband,” he supplied.  “Harry is my husband.”

The inside of a hospital was exactly as he remembered it, but this time he was no longer the surgeon, but instead family.  He was directed to a sink where he could wash his hands, he told multiple doctors what had happened—Harry had gotten to close to the tracks obviously and fallen over.  He hadn’t seen because he was sitting and reading the paper before work.  It was the essence of what happened but not the truth of it, of course.

“Dr. Lecter.”  Hannibal looked up and saw a man in scrubs and stood.  “Your husband is going to make a full medical recovery.”

Medical.  That sounded—worrying.  “What’s wrong?”

“He doesn’t remember the accident, which is usual for this kind of trauma,” the doctor told him.  “He also doesn’t seem to remember—you.”

Of course he wouldn’t.  He’d never met Hannibal, but Hannibal—now that he had this opportunity, wasn’t about to let Harry Potter slip through his fingers.  “Perhaps if he sees me,” he suggested.

The doctor nodded.  “Don’t expect too much,” he told Hannibal as he led him down a corridor. 

“I can manage my expectations,” Hannibal returned carefully.  He took a deep breath and realized that for the first time he was going to speak to his darling, and he was going to have to pull off the performance of his life.

He went into the room without the doctor and saw Harry lying there in the hospital bed.  He looked so small, his hair plastered to his forehead, his glasses lost somewhere in the tracks.  Hannibal would have to get him a new pair.

“How are you, my dearest?” he murmured as he walked in, coming around the bed and taking Harry’s hand, delighting at the feel of skin against skin.

Harry flinched ever so slightly and then looked up at Hannibal through dark lashes.  Well, almost looked up at him.  His gaze hovered at Hannibal’s nose, not that Hannibal minded.  Harry didn’t have his glasses after all, and was probably a bit near sighted.  Harry’s ugly scar, fresh from a recent injury, was covered with bandages.  He wasn’t entirely certain of the reason, but Hannibal supposed the scar was believed to be an injury from falling on the tracks.  It certainly looked fresh enough.

“They said I fell onto the tracks,” Harry lisped slightly.

“Yes,” Hannibal agreed, picking up their joint hands and kissing the back of Harry’s.  “I thought my heart would leap out of my throat, I was so terrified.”

Harry’s eyelashes fluttered slightly and he licked his lips.  “I don’t remember.”

“I know, Harry,” Hannibal told him softly.  “It’s to be expected.”

“I—”  Harry cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable.  “I don’t remember you.”

Hannibal nodded sagely.  “I’m Hannibal Lecter, your husband.”

“Husband,” Harry repeated, as if trying out the word.  “I’m not gay.  I was married—”

At this Hannibal laughed.  Harry didn’t know anything about his own sexuality.  He was too wrapped up in his ex wife who, Hannibal believed, lived somewhere in England.  Harry simply needed encouragement in the right direction.  He needed Hannibal in his life—and now he had him.  “Don’t worry about that,” Hannibal told him after a pause.  “I’m certain it will all come back to you.”

“Will it?” Harry asked no one in particular, turning to look at the ceiling.

“It will,” Hannibal told him kindly, though he hoped that nothing came back at all.  He glanced over at the bedside table and saw Harry’s wallet and keys.  Perfect.  He would go and collect Snuffles once he was finished here and relocate the dog to his home in Baltimore.  He’d also have the chance to see his Harry’s home up close instead of just through the windows.

There was also a long piece of wood with a kind of handle with the keys.  It was the most curious thing, but Hannibal would let Harry explain it to him in his own good time—or not at all, if the wooden stick was unimportant.

Hannibal continued to stroke Harry’s hair.  “Everything will be all right.”

“I want to be transferred,” Harry murmured, “to St. Mungo’s in New York.”

Confused, Hannibal had never heard of St. Mungo’s.  He certainly had no idea what Harry would want with a hospital in New York. 

“Hush now,” he murmured, “the doctors are very competent here.”

Harry looked at him oddly, but seemed to let it pass.  His eyes drifted to his wallet and keys along with that wooden stick, as if checking to see if it was there.

“How long have we been married, Hannibal?” Harry asked, his green eyes full of confusion.

“Oh,” Hannibal breathed out.  “A little less than a year.”

Harry was still staring at him with that question in his eyes. 

“Nothing to worry about,” Hannibal murmured, leaning down to gently kiss Harry for the first time.  Harry’s lips were chapped and unresponsive, but Hannibal did not care.  What mattered is that he had Harry here, with him, and a claim had been placed on his beloved.

He waited until Harry was back asleep before he picked up the wallet.  It was full of the usual identification, except Harry’s only credit card was for a bank known as Gringotts, which was confusing to Hannibal. He had never heard of it.

Tucked away with the dollar bills was a small picture of a six-year-old boy with auburn hair and Harry’s green eyes.  The boy seemed to shift in the frame and Hannibal blinked.  It must be a catch of the light.  Turning the picture over in chicken scratch writing he saw, “James, 2006.”

An old photograph then.  James would have grown into a preteen or teenager by now.

The divorce, then, was a long standing one.

Picking up the keys, Hannibal kissed the side of Harry’s head in his sleep, and then left for the little stone cottage outside of Baltimore.

At first, it felt like there was a resistance coming onto the property, as if the air was too thick and Hannibal couldn’t quite walk through the fog.  Thinking himself oddly fanciful that day, Hannibal pushed through the air until he was on the front steps of the cottage. 

Unlocking the door, he found Snuffles sleeping in a dog bed off in the kitchen, and Hannibal patted his head before going to find his leash.

First, though, Hannibal needed clothing from Harry’s closet.  In the bedroom drawers he found socks and briefs along with a few t shirts, but in the closet where Hannibal expected to find suits and ties, Hannibal found what appeared to be robes.  They were beautifully made, handstitched, with the most extraordinary fabrics.

After much consideration, Hannibal packed four of the simpler robes along with one of the nicer ones, remembering the socks and briefs at the last moment.  Harry also needed another pair of shoes.

When Hannibal was coming out onto the landing, he saw a portrait of a man with long black hair with laughter in his eyes.  “You’re not Harry,” the portrait said.

Hannibal was so shocked, he dropped his bag.  Carefully approaching the portrait, Hannibal regarded the man who was wearing a corduroy suit.  Yes, definitely a painting.  A talking painting.  “Good afternoon,” he carefully greeted, uncertain if the stress of the day hadn’t broken him somehow. 

The portrait smirked.  “No, you’re not Harry at all.”

“No,” Hannibal agreed.  “I’m not.”

“Then what are you doing in his house?”

Hannibal considered the portrait for a moment.  This could not be the result of a psychedelic drug.  He hadn’t ingested anything that he hadn’t made himself.  Taking a deep breath, he answered, “I came to get Harry’s things.”

“Things?  Why?”  The portrait looked at him oddly, brushing something off its sleeve.

Briefly wondering what he was going to tell Bedelia, Hannibal answered, “Harry fell on the train tracks.  He’s coming home with me for his recovery.”

“He only took the train this morning because Ginny wouldn’t stop hounding him about child support,” the portrait scoffed.  “That woman was out for nothing but his money and his fame.”  He blinked and looked at Hannibal.  “You’re wearing a wedding ring.”

“Yes,” Hannibal answered the portrait.  “I’m married—to Harry.”

The portrait smirked.  “The sly dog, never saying a word.  Married. To a Muggle.”

Hannibal was unsure whether or not he should feel insulted.  What exactly was a Muggle?

“It doesn’t matter what I am,” he argued.  “What matters is I love Harry.”

The portrait regarded him carefully for a long moment.  He must have found what he was searching for in Hannibal’s demeaner because his entire face changed from suspicion to openness.  “Sirius Black the Third,” he introduced himself, bowing slightly.  “I was Harry’s godfather.”

“Was,” Hannibal checked.

“Oh, yes, I died back in 1996.  Frightful.  My own cousin murdered me.—But I’d had this portrait painted beforehand so Harry hasn’t been completely abandoned.—What’s your name, husband?”

“Hannibal Lecter the Eighth.”  Hannibal’s red eyes stared into the portrait’s.

“Convince Harry to sue for custody.  He’s too kind hearted to think of hurting the Weasleys, but Jamesie would be far better off here, with Harry, and not a mother who parades him around like a celebrity.”

Well, it seemed there was no love lost between Harry and his ex wife.  A child was also potentially in contention.  Hannibal had no heir, and would gladly adopt any child of his beloved Harry’s.  “I shall certainly take it into advisement.”  He bowed because it seemed the thing to do.  “I need to fetch Snuffles.”

Sirius Black laughed a barklike laugh.  “Yes, Harry loves that dog,” he agreed.  “He couldn’t be without him.”

Hannibal looked over the portrait for one last moment before going down the stairs. 

Snuffles was a black Labrador with impeccable habits.  He was sitting in front of the door, wagging his tail.  Hannibal found his leash, clipped it onto the dog’s collar, and then left the cottage.

Next was settling everything into his home.  Snuffles was easy to settle.  He immediately retreated to the dog bed Hannibal had purchased for him, the new dog bowls shining on the floor.  Hannibal, having not seen any dog food at Harry’s cottage, went and picked up a specialty food brand for Snuffles.  Snuffles would certainly get the best of life with Hannibal.

After hanging up the robes in the closet, Hannibal returned to the hospital.

Harry was awake, sitting up and eating green jello.

When Hannibal walked in with a small duffle bag, Harry’s eyes lit up.  “I wondered where you’d gone.  I thought I dreamed you.”

“A good dream, I hope,” Hannibal murmured, reaching over and kissing Harry lightly. 

Harry, this time, angled his head slightly and breathed into the kiss.

Reaching up and touching the knot of Hannibal’s tie, Harry asked, “If we’re married, where’s my wedding ring?”

“You lost it at Quantico,” Hannibal lied gently, reaching up and trailing his fingers down Harry’s face.  “We haven’t had time to get you a new one.”

“Hmmm,” Harry hummed, considering before he settled back on his bed.  “Have you been at work?”

“Collecting your things.  I didn’t want you to be alone, even though you’ve kept your own address because of Ginny.”  He regarded Harry cautiously, but Harry’s green eyes seemed to harden a little at the mentioning of his past marriage.  “Sirius thinks we should take custody of James.  Why didn’t you say?”

Harry looked up in shock and then relaxed.  “Ginny doesn’t believe in homosexual relationships.”

“That’s Ginny’s problem,” Hannibal answered, glad he hadn’t misstepped by mentioning the portrait.  “You know I would be happy to have your son here.  How old is he now?”

“He’s a second year,” Harry answered and Hannibal sighed out through his teeth.  He supposed that James was somewhere like Eton that began when a student was eleven.  That would make him twelve or thirteen now.

“That’s not too old to start a new school.  Have you thought—?” Hannibal asked, knowing that tonight he would be researching the best schools on the East Coast.  His Harry had a child and Harry was clearly not happy without his son, so Hannibal would gain custody of James for Harry if that’s what was necessary to make Harry happy.

“Ilvermorny,” Harry answered.  “I have their pamphlets.”

Hannibal had never heard of Ilvermorny, but he supposed a simple google search would change that.  “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

The doctors let Harry be discharged that evening, and Hannibal rolled him out in a wheelchair to the car.  Hannibal settled Harry in his Bentley before driving into the suburbs of Baltimore.  Harry was obviously looking out of the window in curiosity, and when they arrived at Hannibal’s house, he made a sound in the back of his throat.

“All this just for you?” Harry asked, looking over at Hannibal.

“And you and Snuffles,” Hannibal informed him, “and James if we are so fortunate.”

He parked the car and looked over at Harry.  Guessing from his conversation with Sirius, Hannibal murmured, “I know you don’t like large displays of wealth, but I’ve always wanted to be comfortable.”

“This is certainly comfortable,” Harry agreed wryly. 

They got out of the car and Hannibal led him up to the door, showing him the code to the door (03-13-2011), which was the day that Hannibal had first seen Harry.  Bedelia said he was obsessive.  Hannibal viewed himself as devoted.

“What does that date mean?” Harry asked, coming into the foyer and looking around. 

Fortunately, Hannibal kept pictures of no one so Harry wouldn’t find it odd that there were none of the two of them. 

“It’s the day we met,” Hannibal told him lovingly.  “We were at Quantico and I saw you across the campus.  I was lost.”

“You work at Quantico?” Harry asked.

“I’m a consultant,” Hannibal told him.  “I have a psychiatry practice here in Baltimore.”

“While I spend half of my time in New York,” Harry said wryly.  This certainly surprised Hannibal.  Harry had never gone away so long as to be in New York.  What did he mean by it?  “Is your floo connected?”

Hannibal had no idea what Harry was talking about.  “—No,” he told him carefully.

“We’ll have to connect,” Harry told him.  “I’ll get someone out here tomorrow.”

Still, not sure what he was talking about, Hannibal agreed, “If you think that’s best.”

Snuffles came pattering in about then, and Harry dropped to his knees and started ruffling the dog’s fur.  The sight brought a small swell of jealousy into Hannibal.  Harry should be bestowing all of his affection on him, not a dog, but he knew their relationship was still new.

As soon as Harry stood, Hannibal drew him into a lingering kiss.

Harry tasted like green jello and tea, and Hannibal loved every single moment of it.  Harry was hesitant at first, but soon pushed himself into Hannibal, grabbing at the back of his head.  Hannibal melted into the kiss, unaware that Harry had flicked his right wrist out and the wooden stick had flicked into his hand.

He was, however, very aware, when that stick was pointed at his heart.

Hannibal pulled away in confusion and looked down.  “Harry?” he asked.

“I don’t remember you,” Harry told him flatly.  “I don’t think hitting my head would completely obliviate an entire relationship and marriage.  What’s your angle?”

Hannibal’s throat clenched.  He looked into Harry’s green eyes.  “Is that a wand?”

“It is,” Harry agreed, “which you would know if you were my husband.”

“I know everything about you,” Hannibal breathed.  “You’re the kindest man I’ve ever seen.  You’re kind to animals and people alike.  You’re sharply intelligent, your work for Quantico is somehow confidential, you were divorced and it left a shadow in your eyes—but if you would only see me—”

“I see you.”  Harry’s words were harsh and cold.

“Then see me,” Hannibal begged him.  “See me this once, Harry, even if you’re going to toss me away.  Please though, darling, don’t ruin what we have—”

“We have had less than twelve hours,” Harry argued.

“I have nearly two years,” Hannibal breathed, his eyes fluttering shut in memory of the day he watched Harry go on a date with some mousy agent from Quantico, forced to observe and never intervene even when she brought him home—

Harry lifted his wand to just between Hannibal’s eyes and breathed, “Obliviate.”

And then all was darkness.

The End.