Do you know what it's like when the skin you're wearing doesn't fit?

-Hannibal.

Harry was completely obsorbed in a book on a wizarding sport called Quidditch. Unbeknownst to his non-magical relatives; Hannibal let him read while in the office, along with a few other Magic related books but this was his favorite by far. His Aunt was running late as usual to pick him up, but he didn't mind so much anymore when he was left longer at his therapist's office. Preferring it since first learning about his magical heritage, he had learned so much in the past months from both the man and the borrowed books. He only wished Hannibal would be able to take him to Diagon Alley soon.

He had heard a lot about the Magical Market place but until Hannibal got permission to take him out around London, he had yet to see more than pictures; pictures that to his astonishment had moved like little movies, it had been an amazing discovery at the time and the first of many.

The door to the waiting room opened and Harry immediatly snapped the book closed, hiding the cover from view exspecting his Aunt huffing impatiently for him to hurry up. He was greeted by a fair haired, petite woman about his Aunt's age and a brown haired boy a little taller than himself.

Harry tried not to stare, he had never seen another one of Hannibal's patients before. Sure he knew he had more than just himself, but he had never seen them. Hannibal had three entrances leaving his office; one led to the entrance waiting room, one to an exiting waiting room and one to Hannibal's adjoining house. Now a days Harry hardly used the entrance waiting room, not since he had begun having lunch with Hannibal. Their time before his session was normally spent in the Lithuanian's home after which they moved to the office and then he would wait in the exiting waiting room for his Aunt while Hannibal got ready for his next appointment.

Hannibal had informed him today that he was going to need to stay in the entrance room as the exiting one was having some work done, something about water damage and a burst pipe. Harry watched the woman settle on one of the seats with an acknowledging smile toward Harry who smiled back politely.

Fear.

He could practically taste it in the air, that familiar pang of sweat and acidity like lemon juice on his tongue. He knew it well, it saturated his cupboard from years of pent up nightmares. The woman flinched as her son stalked across the room, pulling her sleeves down over the faint scratch lines decorating her arms.

The boy walked the length of the room before turning and stalking back, giving Harry a better look at him. His hair was a short messy brown, unkempt and dark eyes darting around. His arms were held stiff at his sides in forced stillness but his hands were flexing spazmadicly. Scratches and bandages littered his arms as if he had tried to claw through his own skin.

"Why don't you sit down, Randall dear?" The woman suggested patting the seat next to her.

"I don't want to sit!" The boy snarled and his mother let out a whimper. Dark feral eyes scanned around before locking on to the other occupant of the room.

The wolf paced as if caged, snapping at the straining seams of the poorly fitted person suit stretched over its to large frame. The threads holding fast dispite the attempts to rip it off, blacken fur peaking through the seems but unable to break free.

"It's to tight," the words slipped out before Harry could stop them, the other boy stilled and Harry dropped his gaze to the book clutched in his hands. He'd done it again, now they were going to think he was the freak most people thought he was.

"What?" The boy asked, his voice breaking in an almost pleading relief. "What did you say?"

Harry shifted his grip on the book before deciding he might as well answer seeing as he already put his foot in his mouth. "It's to tight, suffocating, you keep trying to get it off but it won't come off."

"Yes," the boy-Randall-breathed, watching Harry with a relieved look that came from someone finally understanding what couldn't be explained. "You-

"Ah, Mr Tier good afternoon, your right on time." Hannibal greeted from the doorway to his office. Randall snapped his mouth shut on whatever he had been going to say, but remained staring at Harry for another minute before turning to head into the office. Hannibal watched the interaction silently, eye's darting from one to the other; when Randall had left the room he addressed Harry. "Your Aunt has just pulled in, best not keep her waiting."

"Yes sir, thank you." Harry said quietly gathering his things and returning the book to the doctor, pointedly not looking at Hannibal or Mrs Tier as he quickly left the building.

Hannibal smiled to himself as he tucked the book under an arm, closing the office door. Impressed Harry had picked up quickly on Randall's condition without even realizing what it was.

Only a third of werewolf victims usually survived their initial attack, of that third that survived their wounds ninety five percent changed with the next full moon. The remaineing five percent was made up of those that didn't change and never will, some live life with the occasional side effect of craving their meat more on the raw side than normal or being more active at night. Nothing that would be extremely life changing, in Randall Tier's case things were not so simple.

On his first full moon he had screamed as most do, writhing under the pain that came with the change only for it to not come. The wolf was there, angry, vicious and trapped just below the surface.

The pain had faded but the wolf had never left, trapped and wanting relief; the boy had begun lashing out at himself and his parents to the point they had contacted him for help. Hannibal, while he was generaly a muggle psychiatrist, was known in the magical community enough for him to have the occasional patient from the magical world. They were few, most magical people, especially those of old families didn't see the need or even hold much respect for his field of profession.

Born a squib to a middle class, half blood family; Randall's parents had been at a loss of what to do after their son's attack and the complication with his condition. Saint Mungos had been no help once his initial wounds had healed; apart from being sure the parents were well supplied with all the little leaflets the Ministry insisted they give out to werewolf victims and their families after an attack, dictating clinicly what laws and regulations would now apply to them after their first change. When he did not after the moon had come and gone, the healers had written him off as the minority and offered no other aid for the boy once it was clear he was not a threat of spreading the condition to others.

So led the Tier family to Hannibal's doorstep, in hopes that a non-magical treatment might be able to help where the magical ones had failed.

Hannibal was pleased with the outcome of the first meeting of his patients, deciding a longer meeting might be something to look into orchestrating in the future.

YouTube Video Chapter Inspiration: The ReckoningWill GrahamMatthew BrownHannibal Lecter