A/N: Merry Christmas, dear readers! This is my gift to y'all—a new chapter. *Claps*

We'll learn some more about Herkus in this chapter.

By the way, someone PM me about the slow progression of this story, not about the update, but the plot—and I have to remind you again that this is a slow burn fanfic, for the development (or plot) and the pairing itself. Still, I hope you enjoy this story—for those who stays. Cheers!

Thanks to Lulubell Alynn for translation and LitPen for Beta!

To Matsoine: Thanks! Fluff is love, fluff is life. Family moments are the best!

To Yoyo: THANK YOU! I will take your offer about that discussion on a later date. *Wink* Glad you liked the last chapter! I imagined Hannibal secretly hehehe in his mind as he plotted for Will's demise (that is not so deadly of course). He loves to tease and flirt with Will, and witnessing the profiler's lovable reaction, the teasing-flirting becomes more enjoyable. (Ayy, good for you, Hanni-boo.) I ,sadly, don't know about how adoption works in US, so don't be mad at the very brief explanation—though I might include some of the process later with Will. I kinda want to make Hanni pulled some strings from behind about Herkus' adoption process which was supposed to involve the court and whatnot but this is fanfiction so…heheh (what's legalities again?). I LOVE your take on the vacation, so I will do just that. Fishing time, bonding time. You give me great ideas about Randall, so yeah. Yep. Thanks. So interesting. Damn it. The plot writes by itself. Hanni should realise that nobody can babysit Herkus better than him and Will. Babysitters don't last long in Lecters' household. XD

To LunaSunFlowerLily: Thanks. Yep. Herkus is officially Hannibal's son now. Let's see how our little cannibal thought about it, yea?

To libraryrockerr: Thank you for the review! Ding-dong! You're right! I'll PM you later for the prize, yea? You should be suspicious of Hanni. He's not merely helping Will just because of his kindness. XD

To ventte: Thanks! Omg, you give me a nice idea, y'know? Have a good day!

To Akachan23: Thank you! You guessed wrong about Mathilda. Too bad. But it's okay. Hope you like this chapter too! It has fluffy in it! Good day!

To Penguinvamp4245: Thank you for the review! Glad you loved the All Might omake thing. Hehehe. I couldn't resist. You'll learn something more about Herkus here. And Alejandro did have his own mystery.

To Imperia Phantomhive: Thanks! Glad you liked the chapters! Please, do keep posting review, I'm a sucker for it. You have an amazing day too, dear. :D

To Alcora: Thank you! There are many more chapters, dear reader. Hope you'll be staying until the end. Have a nice day.

To yuharu . kouji101: Thanks! You're almost right about Mathilda. But don't worry, Herkus will find justice for her! Have a good day.

To hellkiss: Thanks! Hi, there, long time no see! Glad to know you're still following the story. Yeah! Will belongs to Hannibal and vice versa—so does Herkus (he's totally their son). No need to worry much about season 2 and 3, since Herkus' presence is already changing how the canon goes anyway. I'm happy you enjoyed the last chapter! Hannibal said "please" is a manipulation, if you realise. He knows how to make Will fluster, and will strive for it, even. While Hannibal might have helped Will in discovering the sickness earlier, he is still our favourite disturbing cannibal—he's just less likely to torment Will because of Herkus. He (and Herkus, too) will ensure that Will become dark. Yep, Murder Family is the best! There will be more about Alejandro in the next chapter—the chapter after this one. Herkus becomes a poor liar in front of Hannibal. We never know how he can keep secrets of his heritage from Hannibal. And yep, Will seems bolder because of the drugs. XD

To jayswing96: Thank you! Yeah, Will will be healed before Hannibal messes with his mind. Though the psychiatrist is already messing with Will—look how he treats Will: flirting, teasing. XD

To DebsTheSlytherinSnapefan: THANKS! You know Murder Husbands always get away, don't you? Now with powerful Herkus, they may as well be untouchable. Yep! Hannibal loves Herkus very much. He likes to please his son—and if that meant that he couldn't mess with Will too much when he's sick, then so be it. He can tease Will instead. Lol. Abigail is annoying, for some part, but I admire the length she took for her own survival. I mean, she's a tough cookie—but unfortunately for her, Herkus is even tougher and is loved by Hannibal that she can't take cover from Hannibal like in the canon. She's good at manipulating people too, but well, Will is more concerned about Herkus. Kinda like older siblings who got forgotten a little bit when they have new brother or sister. The cliff thing is a rhetorical question, but I like how people have been responding to it…maybe I'll even make a side story. XD

To yaoishipsforlife: Thank you. You'll learn about Mathilda in the next chapter after this. Herkus did try to remain inconspicuous but sadly he's too impulsive. You'll learn why later. Have a good day!

To acetwolf94, mucik24, RehnaTigerwolf, DevoraDeath, RedB04, DDarklolita, Hibari Shizuka, PandoraMorgenstern, SoraMalfoySlythern, theghoulruler, start12345: THANK YOU! Hope you like this chapter! Fluffy time, discovery time.

General warning : Swearings, past child abuse, mention of rape, slash, cannibals, dark creatures.

Pairing : Hannibal/Will

Disclaimer : I do not own Harry Potter and Hannibal series.

Chapter 34 : Developments

Sleep was a chore for Will, one that was filled with routine, or rather, a collection of habits, in which he had to follow—mainly, by placing a towel on the part where he'd lain himself on the bed and by drinking a two-finger whiskey as if it had been a particularly long day. He didn't have the luxury of finding an easy, quick solace when he put his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. Seldom had he woken up feeling rested and invigorated. Nowadays, being able to sleep for two hours straight was a feat by itself. A treat.

Maybe it was because he felt relieved after finally having finished with the appointment. Maybe it was the drug that was pumping in his blood still. Maybe it was the cool draft from the dashboard vents, or maybe his exhaustion had finally caught up to him that Will found himself easily fell into a light doze in Hannibal's car. Just like this morning, the sounds of the soft purring from the engine and humming of the classical music proved to be a very relaxing ambience, a sleep inducing kind.

Unsurprisingly, his sleep wasn't a dreamless one. But it wasn't a nightmare-fuelled one either. Instead, his dream had an odd if not comical quality in it; of Billy Joel's songs—courtesy of being subjected to that singer's hits for almost an hour straight during the brain scan—mingled with the voices of Hobbs and Stammets and Buddish and Shannon and the newly added, Gideon.

In that dream, Will was only a spectator to the performance, thankfully. Beside him stood the feathery stag, seemingly perturbed by the cacophony before it if its erratic chuffing was any indication to go by. (He didn't know. Will wasn't an expert in reading the expression of a buck, after all.)

In between choruses, somewhere, sometime, Herkus had joined in with the band of misfits, playing the fiddle that his guardian had bought for him without a care and a smile on his face—the boy was clean and neat, not a speck of blood anywhere near his person.

The River of Dreams was sung in the background, Billy Joel's baritone gradually increasing in decibels, with the instruments being played by Jack's best trio for some reason, when an outside force disrupted this Twilight Zone moment.

It came in the form of a voice: masculine, foreign accent, and deep, rich timbre.

"Will." Burgundy eyes were peering at him closely, his shoulder was no longer been lightly shaken now that he'd opened his eyes. "We have arrived."

"What?" Will blinked. Any trace of the tunes vanished in his mind as drowsiness sucked out of him in a rapid, dwindling ferocity. He felt like Alice after coming back to reality, out-of-depth and perplexed in general. He blinked again, just to shake off the last tendril of sleep clinging on him, and then looked around. "We're at…your house?"

Hannibal hummed, unfastening the seatbelt. "Although this may be presumptuous of me, it is better for you to stay here today. At least, until the sedative is no longer affecting your cognizance."

When Will had agreed to take the diazepam, he was told to stay with loved ones or a friend for a twenty-four hour period, for safety measures. Will's loved ones, human loved ones, that was, was no longer in this earth, and he hadn't got any friend that he could just casually ask in a moment of notice for help. Hannibal might, as now, but he didn't think, had never entertained that idea, too, to intrude into his psychiatrist's home at all. Will was actually expecting to sleep on his own bed for a day straight, or as much as he could get, milking the effect of the sedative for as long as he could, rebooting his system.

"I didn't bring anything," Will said unthinkingly.

That wasn't exactly a no to the sudden invitation. But it wasn't a yes either. The ambiguity of his answer was caught by the psychiatrist, and the older man's lips curled into a small upward curve, seemingly amused.

"I think you can survive one day borrowing mine."

"But, my dogs…"

"You can ask the neighbours for help," Hannibal suggested. "I assure you the clothes are still unworn. Though if you are still feeling uncomfortable at the thought, we can purchase some —or making a quick detour to Wolf Trap and bring the clothes."

"Why not do the last option—but left me there?"

"I'm afraid that is not in the table here, Will. You need supervision after taking the diazepam. I would loathe to find you accidentally injure yourself in your home."

Will sighed, unlocking the seatbelt, and scrubbed his own face using his palm. He didn't want to inconvenience the man even further than this—so borrowing it was. Though that was another, somewhat different, kind of inconvenience, also. Damn it.

"Fine. No need to go to the market."

"As you wished." Hannibal smiled in that minimalist way he had, eyes creasing and an impression of warmth. Charming. "Are you able to walk by yourself?"

"I'm good." To support that claim, he got outside of the car, keeping both hands inside the pockets, bending, and peered at somewhere around the man's face. He raised an eyebrow: Good enough for you?

"Glad to see it." Hannibal exited the vehicle, walked around to his side, and gave him keys. Will took them and blinked questioningly. "I have to trouble you with the door, I'm afraid my arms will be preoccupied soon."

Will glanced at the backseat. Herkus was sleeping soundlessly. No wonder the boy didn't say anything.

"Sure."

He observed the psychiatrist disengaged the seatbelt, carefully scooping the boy from the seat and picked him up. Herkus head's lolled at the motion and Hannibal swiftly laid a palm over his head for support, cradling the sleeping boy close.

Realising that he had been staring for a beat longer, Will quickly made his way to the door and unlocked it.

"Anything else?" he asked softly when Hannibal passed by him, Herkus grumbled quietly in his arms, but otherwise had remained oblivious to the world.

Will both admire and envious of the boy's ability to stay asleep.

"There are groceries in the trunk. Can you bring them to the kitchen?"

"Okay."

The paper bags didn't weigh that much, it was easy for Will to make it in one go—which he did. He'd still checked the inside first though, just in case there were eggs or something fragile; there weren't any. Just as he placed them on the counter, Hannibal entered the room. The psychiatrist had already shrugged off most of his upper layers, leaving him with red button-up shirt and black vest.

"Still sleeping?"

Will stepped away to give Hannibal room to ruffle through the bag and take out the purchased items. They were vegetables, mainly, with several small tied brown packages. Most probably bought from something-monger.

"Yes," Hannibal idly replied. He opened the refrigerator and placed the items inside, but kept several of them on the counter still. "A bit late for lunch. Something simple and quick will have to do."

Hannibal rolled up his sleeves to his elbows before tying a server apron to his waist. Will stared distractedly at the prominent blood vessels that went rippling each time the man did so much as moving. Clearing his throat, eyes travelling up to somewhere safer, he asked, "Can I help you with anything?"

The short nap he had had been revitalizing and he didn't think that sleep would visit him anytime soon. At least, not when he was this jittery—the contradictory effect of the sedative.

Hannibal stared at him, considering, eyes flickered to his bandaged hand. Will raised his injured palm to wiggle the fingers back at him and a hint of smile made its way up to the psychiatrist's lips.

"You can peel and cut the onions. Take off your coat first, Will. You may hang them at the rack."

The older man threw him a similar apron to his, and Will followed Hannibal's way of dress: sleeves rolled up and apron tied. Will thought he made a funny rendition of a garcon. With unkempt hair and rumpled shirt, no Michelin restaurant would hire him for sure.

Will was given an empty bowl, several onions, a chopping board and a knife. Behind him, Hannibal washed the potatoes.

When he was chopping the onions, Will felt the older man's looming over his back, peering past his shoulders. "Your cutting skill is admirable."

Will snorted. "I may not be a chef who can easily make bœuf bourguignon or confit de canard, but I do have the credibility to be a decent sous chef at least." He pushed the chopped onions onto the bowl and gave it to Hannibal. In return, he gave Will two carrots. "How do you want them?"

"Julienne."

The older man, who had now joined him across the counter, observed for a few seconds, probably to ensure he knew what he was doing. While he might not put an extra effort to make his food looked like a piece of art, too lazy for the details, he was a decent cook, thank you very much. But when Hannibal had kept his stare still, paused from peeling those potatoes, Will realised that the older man wasn't questioning his cooking skill.

"I cannot place that slight accent of yours."

"Yeah? Well, in Louisiana, everybody have a little bit of Cajun roots themselves," Will explained. "Mine's rusty. Haven't exactly get the opportunity to practice here."

"Nous ne pouvons pas avoir cela, n'est ce pas?" [We can't have that, can we?]

Will groaned. He had a hunch the psychiatrist would be interested.

"J'peux pas tenir une conversation." [I can't hold a conversation.]

Will's Cajun sounded almost vulgar, rough from the lack of use and origin, compared to Hannibal's own polished version of the language. The drawl and nasal end pronunciation felt odd on his tongue, but it beckoned as easy as searching for yesteryear memory.

He wetted his lips, "Like I said—rusty."

"I would argue."

Still holding the gaze, Hannibal tossed a potato on the air and when it fell down onto the awaiting knife, wedged on the sharp blade, he raised it for Will's inspection with a smile so pleased like a boy showing his prized insect collections. Will mirrored that infectious grin without a second thought and then had trouble keeping it down.

"On another note," the man continued, his grin subdued into a small smile that Will found it difficult to follow, caught off guard by the boyish charm still, "Herkus' adoption papers has been approved."

The change of topic was so abrupt that it surprised Will. "Congratulations." This time the smile that appeared came from his own volition, no longer stimulated by external influence.

"Thank you," Hannibal replied, still with that same soft and pleased smile. He studied Will, meeting his eyes in a sudden solemn expression. "I've been meaning to ask you this, Will. Would you do the honour of being Herkus secondary guardian?"

"I—" his throat suddenly went dry. That proposal was as shocking as it was mind-numbing. "Why me?"

"Herkus feels safe around you. And you both enjoy each other's company," said Hannibal simply. "I also trust his safety with you."

"My profession is dangerous," Will countered. "Very dangerous."

"As a teacher?" Will gave him a look. "Those past accidents were mere anomalies. Surely you do not believe all serial killers that you have investigated will find their way to you?"

"Maybe they will. We have no way of knowing," Will said. "What brings this up anyway?"

"I realise I may be involved in an accident, in the possible future. It would be prudent to be prepared for all scenarios." He stared at Will. "We have no way of knowing, after all."

His simple eloquence and good-natured tease made Will's tongue tied like shoelaces. He knew he should give voice to his concerns: his living place, for one, filled with creatures that the boy was so frightened of; his unstable mind was another good reason why he shouldn't be any child's guardian (they'd never established that he was mentally ill or just plain old sick yet); and again, his side job (which was becoming his main occupation nowadays) that was as hazardous as a scientist working with radioactive circa 1930. Those were replies that Hannibal should know, did know, and voicing them out would be redundant, useless. The older man's confidence in him was flattering, and stoked the paternal instinct he had, but Will was still feeling unsettled, inadequate.

Being a guardian, especially to a child who was as young as Herkus, had to have time and patience for the charge they were responsible to, and be able to shoulder a great amount of responsibilities. Will Graham had, and could do, all threes, but that didn't mean he would be great at it. He'd a little practice with his furry children, the lovable mutts, though they were of another kind—caring for a child and caring for a dog was vastly different.

"I don't think I will make a good guardian."

Hannibal smiled, sincere and nothing else. "You will make a terrific one."

~X~

"May I have seconds, please?"

Herkus' gaze fleeted from his, and into Will's surprised ones, before trailing off to his plate with his chin pointed to chest. His embarrassment was further enriched by the colour rising up to his nape, or perhaps due to his rumbling stomach still—hunger discomfited the little cannibal like an ill-fitting glove

"Of course," assured Hannibal, taking the only empty plate from the table, and sauntered into the kitchen.

Through the open door between chambers, Hannibal could hear the conversation breezed through from the dining room, though it had the quality of a susurration, almost muffled, due to the distance and faint clink-clank sounds of Will using the cutleries. Having finished with garnishing the food on the plate, an exact replica to the previous one with an additional meat portion in consideration for Herkus' favoured meal, he stood by the threshold for a moment to listen; the short hallway provided him a rather innocuous hiding place.

"Are you sick?"

"I don't know yet."

"When will you know?"

"Sometime this week, I think."

"Oh," said Herkus, voice earnest as he continued, "I hope you're not sick, Will."

At the pregnant pause, Hannibal could almost see the tinted distress that Will Graham had no doubt was having in his mind, one that would be fermenting and simmering for several days to come. Herkus hadn't the knowledge that the empath was hoping for a malady. Such wish would be a strange concept to the little cannibal, who strive for good health whenever he was struck by sudden ailments.

Concealed as he was, Hannibal wasn't able to witness the profiler writhing uncomfortably under the innocent and well-meaning intention. Shame.

Hannibal took the opportunity between the lulls of conversation for entrance and slid the filled plate to Herkus. He hid his smile at the barely repressed relief coming from his empath.

Much as they'd sought each other's company, Herkus and Will's conversation, more often than not, at least on the occasion where Hannibal was able to witness it, could teeter into infelicitous territory, inspire peculiar occurrences, and encourage awkward gestures and expressions.

There were times when he was blindsided by their lines of thoughts, however, such as the recently re-emersion of C.J.'s tongue incident, but his son's interaction with Will was generally a source of entertainment. More so as of current, since Will's present state of mind was befuddled, embraced by the mild dose of diazepam he was given, that the forts in his bone arena no longer provided him the soundest defence and no way to expunge the slithering invaders.

Will was responding not unlike Herkus when sleep encroached upon him in earlier days: loose around the lips, little tense, and unquestionably, less guarded around Hannibal.

It was the best time to endear Will towards subjects that the profiler would consider as much too intimate when he was sober—him being the secondary guardian of Herkus for one, spending a night in his home, this time with nothing of his possessions and therefore would need to resort to the use of Hannibal's belongings, and relaxing in the comfort of pleasant companies.

Excepting that single unintentional remark from Herkus, Hannibal noted that the younger man did enjoy his respite from the horrors of his mind. Hannibal await for the day when that horror would no longer repulse him and instead became something of a delight, one to pursue and never to retreat from. With it arose anew the feeling of anticipation, of future prospect, that stirred the quietude in his mind palace.

~X~

Having Will around in the house was a blessing; he benefited Henrikas, more aptly, the well-being of his mind, his emotional response. Even hours after Hannibal's confession regarding the adoption—his adoption (which he should've been clued in since Miss Thompson had practically asked him in a not so subtle way), Henrikas still had trouble meeting the man's gaze.

He was afraid that he would be so embarrassed like back in the park, felt the desire to flee from his guardian-who-was-now-his-adopted-father but most of all, he was mortified to find if he would cry—again. Henrikas couldn't push Hannibal's words out of his mind, how his voice had softened in tone and volume when he broke to him about the happy news.

Henrikas was giddy.

He was giddily crazy—and it was driving him insane.

"Would you like to play, Herkus?" Hannibal asked after finishing the last note on the piano.

Wetting his bottom lip, he shook his head, hiding his trembling fingers by clawing on his lap.

(Why was he so nervous? He wasn't even this nervous when he first stayed with the older cannibal.)

Henrikas exhaled softly when the russet eyes wasn't aimed at him anymore and lingered on the empath that was sitting beside him instead. Inwardly, he despaired over his overreactions, if he was ever be able to overcome that lightheaded happiness, if he was condemned to never be able to speak with the psychiatrist again without a foolish smile on his face.

Maybe he was being melodramatic. He was accused of that tendency by Alejandro twice—though the red-haired boy was nowhere in sight to be blamed; and he hadn't the knowledge of his adoption, anyway.

Hannibal wouldn't mind his…shyness, he knew that—but Henrikas did mind it. Very much so. To be reduced into a mentality of a child when he was mentally eighteen years old was humiliating. Eighteen years olds weren't supposed to be so clingy, they were only a step away into adulthood. They were independent. Should be.

In any case, he liked being independent, he thrived on freedom, but he also liked being dependent on Hannibal and Will, too. Real four- and five-year olds was allowed to be clingy and shy—but Henrikas wasn't one. And that conflict had always been a disturbance ever since his body became smaller. The stifling commotion would arise whenever he was treated like a child: getting hugs and kisses, getting carried on someone's arms—though he never had that same conflicting emotions if he was the one to initiate, or ask for the gestures.

Henrikas stopped at that line of thought: Conflict? Contradiction?

When he was Harry, he had almost always having a conflict with himself: had an affinity to dark spells despite being a light wizard, vicious thoughts that a saviour like him shouldn't be having—though they all could be explained now as Henrikas.

Lily Potter's charm—curse—should've been destroyed when he became Henrikas. Should be. But what if he was wrong? He did have that one time amnesia where he woke up with no memories of Will and Alejandro. Would that happen again?

"Herkus?" Will asked him suddenly. "You're shaking. What's wrong?"

Hannibal had stopped playing, the soft tinkling sound diminished at the last key, as his eyes zeroed on him. Rising to his feet, he walked towards them and placed a palm on his forehead. An indiscernible frown marred his expression. "Are you feeling ill?"

Henrikas stared at both men, unable to answer as though his mouth had sewn shut. His mind was still bursting with the horrifying thoughts—each one becoming even more alarming and disturbing, getting out of control, and running his thought processes amok: There was no Gatekeeper, nobody could help him with magic here. Who could help him, then? What if he became Harry again? What if he lost all of his mem—

"Henrikas Lecter," Hannibal called out, and that sternness pulled him away from those disturbing realisations.

Not realisations—ideas. They were mere ideas, bad thoughts, hatched from who knows where and shouldn't be delved into. Henrikas was free from them, and would remain so as long as he was here.

Gatekeeper said that he was a strange case, that he should've died when he jumped into the Veil, but he didn't. And they wouldn't—couldn't, follow him into this world…could they?

He didn't like this feeling—didn't like where his mind was currently taking him, as if he was cruising on the sea but the destination wasn't his to decide because no one was manning the helm. It was just him and the infinite sea: deep, cold and daunting.

There was warmth on his face, then. Hands. Hannibal's. He was cradling his cheeks, and it was soothing and clarifying at the same time that Henrikas no longer felt like he was drifting farther and farther away from the land.

"Herkus," he said again. "Can you hear me?"

He swallowed, blinked. His throat felt tight. "I hear you."

"Did you recall one of your memories?" the older man asked, releasing his hold, but remained kneeling in front of him. Henrikas was sandwiched between Will and the armrest, and between Hannibal and the back cushions. "Would you like to talk about it?"

Ducking his head, Henrikas clenched and unclenched his fist, contemplating, and let out a soft hum. Both of Hannibal's hands were in his sight, so the one that was patting his head should be Will's. The gesture was soft and tentative, caring, and something inside Henrikas shattered, leaving a startling gaping ache that was becoming too much. It happened so abruptly, Henrikas reeled from it—he didn't understand where it came from and why.

He dove on Will's stomach before the first tear fell—Will, because he thought he would just cry outright if it was Hannibal.

"Herkus?" he heard Will's concerned voice overhead as careful hands started to caress his back and head.

Henrikas wanted to tell him to stop, because it felt so nice, but he didn't want them to see his crying face, so he clung harder to Will and clenched his teeth. Stop, please. He demanded in his mind, please—just stop.

He wasn't sure whether he was asking Will and Hannibal to stop from comforting him, or this sudden spiralling, uncontainable feeling to stop.

"—you should get him to bed," he heard the tail of Hannibal's sentence that was clearly addressing to Will. Another hand touched his back gently. "Will that be alright, Herkus?"

He nodded, once.

Will must have felt the motion because he carried him in his arms, properly, and then they were moving. Henrikas was astonished to feel the not-dampened shirt on Will. He didn't cry—surprisingly. But his expression should be as wretched and distorted as a crying child, filled with misery and sadness. He certainly felt bad enough.

"I'm sorry," he said when Will brought him to his room.

Hannibal, oddly, didn't follow them.

"It's fine," he assured as he laid him on the bed, still with that patented concern-frown on his face. "Are you okay, Herkus?"

"Hmm," he replied noncommittal. He peered at Will who was busy tucking the blanket all around him. His concern weighed heavily, suddenly, as did Hannibal's. And that weight became stifling, smothering, like a great burden. "Hey, Will, am I a weird child?"

Will paused, blinked, and frowned. "No. You're not. Why are you asking me that?"

He bit his lips, shrugging, and pulled the cover up. He didn't know where did that come from, just like that unexpected heartache. "Just asking."

"Well, you're not," he repeated, patting him on the head reassuringly. "You're just smarter than other children, not weird."

Before Henrikas could reply, there was a rap on the door. Hannibal entered the room bearing a steaming cup of tea—as per usual when he'd had a particularly bad dream. He hadn't one, however, but it was just as bad. Distressing.

With a sip of the chamomile tea, the warmth it suffused on his throat, Henrikas felt calmer. He wasn't panicking blindly anymore when he thought of the probability of him losing memories to the supposed magic leftovers. As abrupt as the oppressing thoughts began, they ended; ached morphing into drained. And amongst that weariness, a mixture of confusion-wariness flared, as was embarrassment—returning him to the initial state.

"You should sleep early today," Hannibal said and took the empty cup from his hands.

"Taip," he replied softly, inwardly flinching at his own response. He meant to say yes in English. He opened his mouth again, worded his tongue, and it came out in the right language this time.

Hannibal, thankfully, didn't question him right there and then.

Once again getting tucked on the bed, Henrikas lied stiffly on the mattress, closed his eyes as comforting hands, Will's and Hannibal's, caressed his head. He opened his eyes as soon as the door was closed. He listened in the darkness for a moment, hearing nothing, and then flicked on the night lamp.

Something happened just now. In him. In his mind. Just like that sudden blankness—one that was cured after Alejandro touched him (which remained a mystery still). Would he be missing memories again the next day?

Better write this before I forget—if I forget.

So far, he didn't get any relapse, but today had proven that he could; reverting back to his mother tongue had been one of the clues, as was the inability to control his thoughts or body (the latter hadn't been the case tonight, thankfully).

After that sudden blankness incidence, he started writing a diary. It acted as an insurance, a clarity—all for his own peace of mind. He wrote his days in great details because they were important, because he never know whether there would be a chip in his memories. Whatever he'd seen, done and felt on that day he would've jotted them down—every single thing.

A very risky venture.

Because of how critical the information were, Henrikas had scribbled them roughly, handwriting bad and almost unrecognisable so that they would be seen as something nonsense. He'd written them in codes, too, for good measure, in runes and symbols, and a mixture of languages that existed and ones that he created.

To anyone who read them, his diary would seem to be full of gibberish doodling like hieroglyph used in ancient Egypt.

Hannibal might be able to decode them, but it would take him some time—time that Henrikas could use to dispose it if it was ever to be exposed. But he didn't think Hannibal would ever read his diary, not to mention that it was greatly hidden, but, also, he believed that the older man would allow him this small amount of privacy.

Switching on the lights on his desk, Henrikas immediately opened to the last entry of the diary. So many things happened today: Alejandro's absence, clues about Mathilda's whereabouts, learning a new trick of his power, Miss Johnson getting hurt because of the indirect use of his power, learning about Hannibal adopting him—

Henrikas paused.

That had been the trigger, hadn't it? Or, at least, it had been the start of the trigger, the start of a chain reaction: He'd been giddy by the news, embarrassed, too, and then the conflict came—and suddenly he was hit by a bunch of nonsense, but not improbable, ideas that were downright alarming.

Henrikas went to the page that depicted the day he'd been kidnapped. When he got lost in the woods, his hand was throbbing because of the lack of his transformation, and he got scared—he got so frightened that he lost control over his body and thoughts. At that time, he'd only been able to converse in Lithuanian; maybe because he was seeking comfort, reverting to the moment when he felt safe with Mama and Tėti.

Tonight he had been spooked too, enough to spiral his mind out of control.

Studying the evidences in front of him, he came to a conclusion: To stop this sporadic surge of feelings, he had to have better grip on controlling his emotions, how he felt.

Henrikas scowled, huffed, hitting his head on the desk, gathering his arms around his face with one hand clasping on a pen still, and muttered, "That's just great. I can't control my feelings."

He either had to surrender to it or resist and endure. Henrikas had never surrendered to anything in his life, never—he'd even resisted death—but if he fought with the feeling again, his mind and body would get hijacked, and he might act far, far worse than the night where he tried to feed Will with a sausage.

To test his theory, he said it out loud, but not loud enough that his voice would be brought over to other rooms, and let himself being immersed by the awe and joy: "Hannibal adopted me. Hannibal adopted me. Hannibal adopted me."

The last sentence had a tinge of jubilancy, almost hysteric, and the blooming warmth and glee that settled in his stomach seemed to be painful, somehow, as though he was holding his breath, his lungs were full—so full that they left him breathless. Bubble of laughter and shriek of delight were supressed, but Henrikas was unable to contain his grin. It was as if his mouth was perpetually stuck in a wide, beaming smile and no longer capable of any other emotions.

Henrikas was, indeed, happy about Hannibal adopting him. Very much so. But not to the point of this maniacal glee. Or maybe he was that gleeful. He didn't know.

Henrikas paused, frowning. He was contradicting himself again now.

He wanted to try relishing on it, letting that happiness control over him as he might've done when he transformed into his other forms out of necessity, but he got cold feet at the last moment, afraid that if he let it reign over him, he would never be able to regain any of the control left.

With time, he managed to wrestle that surge of feeling down. Only when his heart slowed a bit and his joy abated did he realise that these gush and rush of emotions were getting out of hand lately. He noticed himself being more affectionate, hugging Hannibal's knees and whatnot—embarrassing, but harmless; he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy them though.

But this? This was far from harmless. This was a potential disaster—one that could come in a form of him accidentally changing into his other forms.

"Kas tau negerai?" he whispered to himself. Hearing the not-English language, he shook his head and tried again, "What the hell is wrong with me?" [What is wrong with you?]

He hissed when he felt a twinge on his right palm. In the heat of moment, he'd accidentally channelled his power and broke the pen in two. Thankfully the sharp end didn't cut him, and the ink spilled only on the empty pages of the diary, but his fingers were lost causes, sticky.

Without switching any more lights on, afraid that they would give him away, he opened the door to the bathroom using his unstained hand and tried to wash it off. By faint illumination coming from his desk, Henrikas could see his palm was darker than usual. It reeked, too. Soap didn't help much. Apparently, the blue ink was harder to clean up than fresh or clotted blood.

Grabbing his phone, Henrikas texted a message to Alejandro about the solution for his discoloured palm. It wasn't until he sent the message that he remembered that it was dark outside. Although it wasn't that late into the night, children usually slept early. And Alejandro was but a child. But his concern was unfounded when his phone chimed almost immediately.

'Vinegar helps.'

He frowned: Where could he find one? In the kitchen, of course, but he didn't want to go out, he would be exposed for not sleeping. He sent another text:'Anything else? Anything that can be find in a bathroom, like a shampoo or something? Soap is useless.'

'Hand sanitizer might. You need the alcohol-based one. Use it with cloth.'

That he had. Ever since he came home from the park with dirty hands, Hannibal bought him one.

Shutting his phone off after thanking his friend, he went to a drawer beside the bed. This one was filled with unspecified stuffs: pens and pencils, crayons, papers, tissues, batteries, empty notebooks—and one hand sanitizer.

Squirting some into his hand, shivering as the transparent, formless gel felt like a cold jelly, Henrikas gently rubbed it into small circles, relieved to find the blemish slowly disappearing. Ingenious invention, really.

Opening his wardrobe, Henrikas pulled on the small drawer to look for one of those disposable handkerchiefs. He found one—along with GK's bag.

Between his concern towards Alejandro's suspicious injuries and Hannibal's surprise that night, he'd forgotten all about it. Now that the green strapped-bag was staring at him, Henrikas recalled that there had been something inside it.

After cleaning the rest of the ink on his hand and chucked the tainted cloth on the trash bin, he gingerly felt around the bag: hard, rectangular-shaped, thick. It felt like a book. Henrikas took it out. It was a book.

At the same time he'd pulled out the mysterious book, oddly enough, something had also fallen through. A small, rectangular box.

Henrikas took both of them to the desk where the lighting was the brightest, ravelling or unravelling those two objects. Under the lamp, the book proved to be blank, unnamed and untitled, and in a colour of forest green.

The mysterious book was leather-bounded, or something similar to it, Henrikas wasn't sure—a leather was supposed to be brown in colour not green, after all. He didn't think it was dyed, because he didn't smell anything chemical or artificial from the book. In fact, it didn't have any distinguishable smell at all. No crisp scent of papers and parchments, nor the old, musty smell of an aged book. It felt like leather, too, upon touch but it also kind of had a velvety texture. Smooth and nice.

Baffled by the object, he put it aside and paid attention to the other one. The box wasn't as odd as the book, black in colour and bow-tied in a yellow ribbon. He shook it lightly, heard nothing, and gingerly opened the lid after untying it.

There was a folded paper, some kind of note, and under it laid a stag-shaped necklace—only the head part, though, the body was non-existent—with a round-cut emerald embedded in the centre of its horn, glittering under the light, opalescence.

Henrikas blinked. And then blinked some more.

Happy Birthday—the note read when he unfolded it.

It was written in an elegant cursive by using green ink (Henrikas was starting to see a pattern here), providing no name and no other words except for the well wishes. But this sender was not an unknown. It was clear to Henrikas who had gifted him this. Gatekeeper. He caught himself quirking a smile.

Henrikas carefully took the necklace out, and as he drew it close to his eyes, the iridescence of the object increased. Hit by the light, the emerald washed through the gold, almost white, and then a myriad shades of green at once, and the gold repeatedly bloomed through other greenish hues, into ever changing tones of green, when he'd done so much as moved.

For a minute, the kaleidoscopic necklace had so captivated Henrikas, so riveted his attention, so dazzling, that his eyes watered from how much focus he'd invested in it.

Beautiful.

"Gatekeeper," he whispered, lifting his chin high for some strange, nonsensical reason as though the being had lived up above. "If you can hear me, thank you. I love the gift."

There was no answer, of course. And Henrikas wasn't expecting one, too. But he liked to think that his gratitude was properly conveyed to the white-haired boy.

Carefully and reluctantly placing the necklace back into the box, kept it inside the middle drawer of the desk, he returned to the mysterious book.

Unbinding the thin string wrapped around the leather-velvet cover, he opened to the first page and found another note:

Happy Birthday, hope it goes well for you there.

Henrikas raised his eyebrow. He took the other note and compared the handwriting. They were the same, of course. Though the second one was written in plain black ink instead of green, and the wishes was longer.

Shrugging, he kept both notes aside, opened to the next page and gasped. With shaky finger, he traced the words:

For my beloved son, Henrikas.

~X~

Herkus' room was already well-lit when Hannibal entered it. Rather than being awake and about, however, his boy was instead lying face down on the floor, blanket curled over his body, with books strewn all around him as though they were fallen wilted leaves which had been coasted away by the pesky wind. It must have been quite a breeze since there were several books on the desk as well, arranged in a clumsy and hasty stack, one hanging precariously over the edge by the spine near the askew chair; as was the disorganized bed, unmade and cluttered with other printed texts.

Evidently, his little cannibal had changed his postures and places, moving from one station to another, when restlessness had grown bolder within that small body. The sheer amount of books painted across his vision—as though a scientist, with fervour pumping in his veins and had been poring through years of researches, was in great pursuit for answers, or in a middle of a breakthrough, in which the solution would be favourable to humanity—did raise the question if his son had ever rest at all last night.

Those manifested soft snoring and deep, rhythmically breathing were answers enough.

Naughty little boy. How should you be disciplined?

Though the little cannibal most probably acted like this due to the peculiar episode yesterday.

As Hannibal bent to pick up the cover, pinching the edges to fold it into a smaller square, he heard the tell-tale sounds of familiar footsteps; Will had a tendency to shuffle slightly when he walked, heels dragging across the floor in a soft, rustling noise as a weary person might've done.

It was a telling habit, as was the atrocious aftershave—though having resorted to his belongings for the night, the offensive scent didn't linger on the man's body.

"Did a storm visit Herkus' room yesterday?" the empath commented from the entrance, eyes sweeping across the bedroom in one swift motion, as he assumed an expression of bafflement.

"A natural disaster," he added agreeably, laying the folded blanket over the edge of the mattress. "Fortunately we both are excluded from the calamity."

His white dress shirt and black slacks fitted the empath rather nicely, perhaps a little tight on the shoulders, sleeves two inches longer, and a bit loose around the middle, but overall had made a decent attire for the younger man. Perhaps he should give him a blue shirt at the next opportunity: a sapphire blue, made out of silk so that the colour would ripple lustrously in various hues—complementary to his eyes. William's eyes were easily amongst the most charming features that he had, it would be a shame not to bring them out.

"Should I help with the mess?"

Herkus, oblivious to them still, curled into a fetal position on the floor in a similar fashion to a sleeping kitten. He caught Will quirking an amused smile at the sight. If Herkus had awaken, this would be an adequate punishment since the boy was quite embarrassed at the thought of anybody witnessing him in a state such as this.

"Leave them be, Will. Herkus is responsible for keeping his own room clean." Hannibal contemplated for a moment. "Though I would be grateful if you help me with drawing the bath."

Avoiding from stepping on the haphazardly placed books and one sleeping boy, Will made his way to the bathroom with a careful choreograph. As he heard the water in the bathtub started to run, Hannibal crouched and picked up the nearest book. It depicted about folklores, Celtic ones. Another proved to be concerning bipolar disorders, and the next, anatomy of a human. Nothing had linked between the three books; the latter two might but they were quite different in categories.

"He can understand all of these?" Will asked, leaning against the bathroom door, and gestured towards the room in general. There was a faint surprise in his expression, along with mild interest. "They aren't exactly children' materials."

"Any uncertainties will be referred to me. He generally comprehends them just fine, however."

Will blinked, staring at the title of the book still. "School will be very boring for Herkus, then."

No matter how entertaining it might be to subject Herkus to learn the alphabets and numbers, stagnating the mind would be detrimental in the long run. Brain, like other organs, required exercises, perhaps with even more consideration in comparison to others.

Hannibal put the anatomy book down and rose to his feet. "Indeed. Therefore his schooling needs to be selected judiciously."

As they waited for the tub to fill, Hannibal chose the boy's clothes: white underwear, green cashmere shirt, dark brown corduroy pants and a pair of grey fleece socks. He handed them to Will and the man dutifully brought them to the bathroom.

When Hannibal picked the little cannibal up, his eyes fluttered opened in thin slits and his pupils, to some extent, were focussing on him. Hannibal met those wavering green irises peeking behind the thick eyelashes with a small smile.

"Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"

Herkus only response was to close his eyes again, mumbling words that resembled his name and nothing else.

His boy was truly exhausted it seemed, he would give Hannibal little to no assistance with the cleaning up as per usual since his limbs weren't functioning, currently, much less cooperating. Bathing him would take much longer time than routine. And while he would enjoy catering to his son's needs when he was this pliant, they were, unfortunately, rather working in a borrowed time. Hannibal didn't condone tardiness.

Will stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment when he transferred the boy into his arms before his expression changed to that of alarmed. It was an expression that analogous to Herkus. "I'm afraid I have to further trouble you with bathing Herkus. I have yet start preparing breakfast for us."

Hannibal was, of course, be able to bath Herkus even without the aid of the empath—he was adept in multitasking, after all—but why would he trouble himself when there was a pair of helping hands who was as eager as he was reluctant?

"I don't think that's a good idea," Will said hastily. "Herkus seemed so out of it last night. He might scream. Or cry. You're the one who said to give him some time and space."

Hannibal considered that, then, "We should ask the boy himself."

Taking one of the smaller towels, Hannibal soaked it in warm water, squeezed it dry, and gently dabbed the boy's face. The warmth stirred the little cannibal awake in Will's arms, and he blinked sleepily at them. Hannibal wiped underneath his lower lashes, felt them trembled at the back of his fingers, and exerted a little bit of force but not strong enough to chafe his skin.

"Herkus, do you mind if Will bathes you?"

"Hngh," came the intangible reply. Almost immediately, they lost the boy to the Morpheus again, the deity seemingly had an inexorable grasp on him that all Herkus could do was to succumb to its power.

Hannibal blinked, and met Will's gaze. "I don't think he minds."

"That wasn't a yes."

"Neither a no," Hannibal countered, laying the damp towel on the sink. Smiling, he took another step backwards, towards the exit, intention clear to extricate himself from this room. "If you would excuse me, Will, I have breakfast to be done."

"…I exercise the right to say 'I told you so' if you hear him screaming."

"Duly noted."

~X~

When Henrikas was carried into a familiar day-care centre, a place that Hannibal had, at times, dropped him over before Mrs. Kelly was hired and after her not so deadly demise, his drowsiness had subdued into white noises that he could mostly ignore. With clarity washed out the remnants of sluggishness, the straps on both of his shoulders bore a sudden heaviness—not because of the weight of the backpack, but rather because of its importance, what was contained inside it. The Book, The Diary.

He groped on the bottom of the bag from the outside blindly, reassured to find the familiar thickness of said book, squeezed twice, and then let go. Hands falling at both sides, Henrikas' fingers twitched still, itching to touch and peruse The Book again like last night.

Patience. He reminded himself, be patient.

Having finished speaking with the caretakers, Hannibal returned to him, crouching low to meet his eyes. "I was thinking to visit the luthier afterwards, but if you're still feeling tired we can reschedule later."

Henrikas grunted noncommittal, taking much longer time to interpret Hannibal's suggestion owing to his wandering mind: book-diary, diary-book. Luthier, his violin; the string needed to be changed. He hadn't the mood to play the instrument though. Not now, at least.

"Okay. Later is fine." His reply prompted a searching gaze from the older cannibal, and the piercing stare called attention to his roaming mind. Henrikas blinked, feet shifting, and gripped the shoulder straps on each palm. "Um. It's really fine, Hannibal. I know you're busy."

"Postpone it is," Hannibal said after a moment. Cradling his face, the older cannibal kissed his forehead before standing up and patting his head. "You should take a nap, I already informed them that you need an extra rest today."

As if the kiss was a trigger, yesterday's event and awkwardness resurface, and Henrikas was suddenly reminded of their change in relationship which was that of father and son.

Hannibal adopted me. Hannibal adopted me. Hannibal adopted me.

Last night chants reverberated in the chamber of his mind and he ducked his head, bit his lips, as he felt the familiar burn creeping up to his face, particularly on his forehead.

"I will," he hummed, finding it difficult to meet that stare, as fluster controlled his feet to move again, fidgeting. Stop, he told his mind, go away. "Have a good day at work, Hannibal."

The older man smiled, patted his head once more, before ambling towards the Bentley where he'd left Will on the passenger seat. They were going to Will's place first before meeting with Jack Crawford at the FBI's Academy.

Henrikas estimated that it would be evening when Hannibal pick him up.

Ushered inside, Henrikas claimed his usual haunt: a small desk near bookshelves on the corner, the most secluded place he could get in this public area. Napping—resting—room provided more privacy but there was a caretaker who would actually ensure the children were sleeping there. He wasn't that tired now, he'd been sleeping on the way here.

"Henrikas, if you start feeling sleepy, you tell me, okay?"

"Okay, Miss."

Henrikas waited until the young female went away to take out The Book and a notebook. The latter was filled with important notes, any remark that stood out he'd found on the first. Similar to his own diary in the making, the notes were all coded.

Taking four picture books from the shelves, to act as a disguise, of course, he opened two of them as the other two was made into a pitiful stack. Then, he unbound The Diary and went to the bookmarked page.

Dear baby,

How are you today? I hope you're having fun inside because Mama is feeling quite bored. It hasn't been raining lately, so I'm feeling a bit ill. Your Tėti is making himself useful by fetching us some water. He'd made an amusing sight with two buckets hanging over his antlers and one bitten on his mouth. I hope they survive the trip. Mama is rather fond of them. Their designs are certainly beautiful enough to make into decorations, but your Tėti is adamant about using them as pails. He certainly doesn't have an appreciation towards beautiful items.

I wonder if you will have the same antlers as his. Will you have the same form and strength? Or will you be like me?

I hope whatever you will come to be your aesthetic values are better than your Tėti. We can educate him together. He will not be able to decline us, then…

Henrikas read them prudently, imprinting each word into his mind, burned them to memory, even though he'd already read this one last night. He touched the paper softly, following the writing that wasn't as elegant as Hannibal's cursives, but still mesmerise him nevertheless, with something akin to reverence.

With his notebook side-by-side with The Diary, Henrikas compared the two, looking out if there was any discoveries that he'd accidentally missed. When he found none, he paged backwards, returning to the already-read pages from yesterday.

Henrikas didn't dare to read The Book further here, afraid that his past memories would resurface and left him vulnerable. He had to be careful. Last night had been bad enough—he'd got two months' worth of memories that almost made him a drooling mess when Hannibal had found him.

Thankfully, he didn't make a fool out of himself, though he hadn't remember much about this morning except for breakfast and even then it was hazy. The unflattering side effect of recalling all those memories it seemed.

Three pages at most for one night, he reminded himself. Three pages worth of memories—more if the writing didn't send him reeling into the past. But not here. Later. At home.

Leafing through the earlier pages, Henrikas stopped to one of the pages that had caught his attention last night.

Dear baby,

Today your Tėti asks me why I write in English. He's a real foolish creature, isn't he? For a púka, his intelligent does seems to be lower than average…

Púka. Henrikas consulted his note, looked over the part where he'd jotted down about the creature mentioned in Celtic folklore from one of the books that Hannibal had gifted him during their early companionship when the man had realised he took a liking on reading about the myths.

He wasn't a Creature, he was a púka.

Henrikas wondered if GK even know about that at all. Maybe not, since the boy himself said that he didn't know much about them. But why? Because Creature—púka—was a rare being?

He wasn't surprise to find about púka in this world, too, since he'd found out about boggart. But boggart back in his world and this one was vastly different—excepting that it was a creepy being, there was no similarity whatsoever.

But not púka.

While they might not be referring to the same creature, Henrikas did find a similarity between a púka of this world and him: black fur or hair, shape-changers and a proclivity for mischief (he admitted that). In the book, it was stated that a púka had glowing, yellow eyes and could be considered to be bringers both of good and bad fortune—which wasn't the truth in Henrikas' case.

He had red eyes, and wasn't a bringer of anything. He'd also had sharp claws and teeth, which, again, weren't stated in the legend.

It wasn't mentioned that a púka needed to eat human, though there were some parts in rural communities, who still believed in this creature's existence, that claimed they were man-eating creatures. Some admired and some feared them—similar to what GK once said to him.

He scratched his head as he read over the differences again, sweeping a brief glance in front of him for anything suspicious, or anyone suspecting him doing something suspicious, found nothing, and went back to the books.

Henrikas wanted to refer to the folklore book, but he didn't have it here—he didn't bring it. Not that Hannibal would allow it, anyway.

Finding nothing to add, he moved on to another part with little reluctance. It was as intriguing as discovering púka—it was about a Wood Nymph, or a Dryad, and their power. Mama's power.

Before this, he'd gotten the idea of how to use a Dryad's power by Gatekeeper's information about them and by his own experiments. With Mama's book, he learned so much more about his other heritage.

His questions regarding a Wood Nymph's diet was answered last night, though the answer was somewhat surprising. They, the Dryads, were just like…plants. They thrived in sunlight and water, loved to be bathed in both, needed them, like púka to human meat, and singing and dancing kept their health in check.

Henrikas once read about music encouraged the growth of plants, and talking to them made them happy—but he didn't think it was in literal sense for Dryads. No wonder his mother had a variety of musical instruments, and why she would always sing and dance to or with him whenever they were together.

Furthermore, any full-blooded Wood Nymph, like his grandmother, was born with a bond to a single tree, a sapling—if they died, the tree would die, too, and vice versa.

But not for Mama, and certainly, not for Henrikas.

His mother, half-human, wasn't restricted to a single tree—at least, that was what Henrikas could garner from The Diary—and Henrikas, being only a quarter of them, was completely free from the restriction. He wondered if he could bond with one, though. He didn't want to, not if his freedom would be constrained, but he was curious if he could.

Dryad could talk to plants—this, he knew—but they could also talk to animals. Similar to when Henrikas converse with a tree: with them humming and sending emotions, feelings, from the linked minds.

In his full-animal form, he could talk to deers—but as a Nymph, he could talk to any kind of animals.

That could help him in searching for Mathilda.

Henrikas scrutinised The Book and his notebook for nearly two hours before he stored both of them away. There weren't much he could get from re-reading The Diary, and without any references, he was stuck with just what he had; no new information.

Since he wasn't going anywhere, anyway, he might as well call it a day.

Popping his kinks, Henrikas stretched this way and that and lied on the matted floor with a sigh. He should consider taking that rest now but he wasn't feeling all that sleepy.

From elsewhere outside, a sudden chirping sliced through the monotonous hum of the air-conditioner. Overhead. A bird tweeting. It came again. Henrikas reacted with alacrity, bolting upright and strode over to the sliding door. Pressing both palms flat on the transparent glass, he peered outside, into the playground, over the playing children, across the trees, and focussed on the lone bird perching on the high branch.

"Henrikas?" someone asked when he slid the door opened. "Do you want to go out?"

He looked over his shoulders and hid his grimace. It was the happy-go-lucky Miss Hilton. He preferred the cool and composed Miss Rivers. Nevertheless, he kept his smile. Pointing at the bird, he said, "Uh-huh. I want to draw mister birdie. Can I, please?"

The female returned his smile and ruffled his hair, "Sure, honey. You go get your book while I get your shoes, okay?"

His grin changed into a scowl when he turned away. Rearranging his dishevelled hair, Henrikas brought his drawing block and crayons and waited patiently for Miss Hilton to return with his shoes all the while keeping his eyes on the bird who could fly in a moment notice. Stay, stay, stay, he recited silently.

As soon as his feet was covered, he thanked the woman and made a beeline towards the bird. The children outside were mostly attracted to the sandbox and swings and monkey bars, which left Henrikas alone on the bench near the tree. Perfect.

As slowly and carefully as possible, he set his things on the bench and stood close to the leafless tree. High on the branch, the bird was twittering happily still, calling its kind, movement jerky and sometimes flapping its wings for balance, head cocking left and right.

Henrikas touched the tree first, gently prodding it awake, for a warm up. When he got used to the flickering emotions humming underneath his fingertips and reverberated softly on his mind, he looked up at the bird.

Mama wrote that to speak with animals, they had to have similar wavelengths, a mutual understandings—he had to echo, to mimic, to follow, the animal's current thought.

The bird seemed cheerful to him.

Concentrating the pleased, delightful hum from his mind to his tongue, Henrikas crooned. The sound was louder than he had intended though, louder than the bird's tweeting, that it got startled rather than being enticed. Watching the feathery creature fly away, he tried again, with no target this time, and it came out as a wobbling sound like a nervous singer stuttering during a chorus.

He frowned. This is quite hard.

Fortunately, the small group of children were more invested in their play, so nobody had witnessed him scaring away the bird.

While he was waiting for another bird to appear, Henrikas practiced his whistling (without a candy obstructing his mouth, he could whistle just fine), crooning and singing. He made loud and soft sounds, high and low pitches—controlling his tones so that he wouldn't do the first mistake again.

Birds come and go in intermittent waves, and as they, yet again, fly away, either in surprise or just having a brief rest from flying, Henrikas filled their absence by drawing on his book. Around the fifth target, he got a positive reaction. He could almost feel the forming bond in his mind, thin and fragile, before it got frightened by the sudden shaking branch. A ball had hit the tree.

Henrikas stared narrow-eyed at the unapologetic little menaces as one of them grabbed the offending round object and went on their way towards a larger group.

He swept one glance at the increasing number of children gambolling around. So engrossed he was with exercising his vocal chords and experimenting this new trick, he didn't notice that there were more children outside.

How long had he been here? An hour?

Finding no more easy targets perching on the branches, Henrikas decided to get inside.

Picking up his items, Henrikas made his way to the door when he heard a thin mewling from the bushes. Curious, he followed the sound and found a cat. Half of its body was inside the gapped fence while the other half outside. It didn't seem to be stuck, but it didn't try to get the rest of its body inside either—it seemed like contented being wedged between the railings.

Putting his things on top of the bushes, Henrikas crouched, hand slowly reaching out to the cat. "Hey, little kitty. What are you doing here?"

The cat meowed, but didn't move when his hand was mere inches from its face. Encouraged by the lack of reaction, Henrikas shifted closer and smiled when the cat let him patted it. Grinning even wider at the pleased purring sound it made, Henrikas used both hands to fondle the cat's face and smooth coat.

Without thinking, Henrikas crooned that delight song. The sound twined with the purr, and suddenly the cat's orange eyes met his in a rapt attention; gaze startlingly aware, unlike normal cats. Henrikas could feel a curious and happy hum ricocheted in the chamber of his mind. Their wavelengths shared.

"Can you understand me?" he asked breathlessly.

The cat meowed.

Henrikas grinned, jubilant, and laughed. "Can you get inside?"

It moved forward and slithered in, letting the last of its body entered the day-care playground, then blinked at him. He scratched on the cat's neck. "Good kitty. Can you lie down?"

It took a little longer than previously, but it flopped on the ground, showing its white-furred belly. Tail swishing, the cat met his stare still and made a sound again. Henrikas, pleased by the performance, happily obliged its demand and rubbed the furry stomach. The purring grew louder.

"Good kitty," he praised again, thinking of a small trick it could do. "Give me your hand."

When it followed his order, Henrikas couldn't stop himself from beaming. He amused himself by instructing the cat with other simple tricks, each one was done perfectly.

"Hey, what are you—ooh, a kitty! Lemme see it!"

Startled by the new voice, Henrikas' bond with the cat broke. It ran quickly after that, and Henrikas didn't make any attempt to chase it. Watching the cat scampered away with a wistful gaze, he turned to face this disturbance and let out a hint of displeasure into his voice. "You scared it."

The kid gave a guilty look. "Sorry. I just wanna pet it." Wringing his hand dejectedly, he peered at his face, frowned, stepped forward, and blinked in realisation. Pointing a finger at him, he continued in a heated manner, "Hey! It's you! You're the one at the park wif your brother and doggie."

It was his turn to frown. "Brother?"

Did he mean Alejandro?

He nodded, "The one with red hair? Hey, hey, where did your brother take the doggie away? I wanna play wif it, too. S'not fair you three got to play and pet it. It's not yours. You never take it home. It stays in the park."

Alejandro didn't take Mathilda, he would've told Henrikas if he did so.

"No. My…brother didn't take the doggie away. And what do you mean by three of us? I only got one brother."

"Really? The big one s'not your brother?" he frowned, seemingly dissatisfied with the answer. "But you have the same eyes. Mommy says brothers or sisters have same eyes. Like me and lil' Mikey. And his hair is same like your brother."

Red hair and green eyes—definitely not Alejandro.

Having depleted his patience, Henrikas immediately delved into the boy's mind rather than asking him even more questions. Since the boy, Edward "Eddie", was thinking about Mathilda, it was easy for Henrikas to search for memories related to her. Whenever this Edward came to the park, he would watch them from afar. His parents didn't want any kind of pets at home, so he would make do with others' pets.

Henrikas found the person who matched the boy's description. A man with short red hair and green eyes was holding Mathilda. He looked to be in his late twenties, with a small scar on his chin and a mole under his left eye. The unknown man had dropped Mathilda to the ground when Edward questioned him though, and let the boy touched her and fed her jerky beef that the man had brought.

Edward didn't think the man was suspicious.

Henrikas thought the man was suspicious. Mainly because he'd been wearing jeans. He'd found Mathilda's nail ripped off of jeans—him wearing one was too much of a coincidence.

Edward didn't see the man again after that day though.

But the man had been going to park before, so there was bound to be people who'd seen him. Henrikas had to make another trip to the park again—perusing others' mind.

Please leave a review on your way out, thanks!

Next chapter: Decisions, Decisions. Alejandro has a handy skill, Herkus jinx himself, Franklyn makes an appearance, and prepare your pesticide 'cause there's a pest crawling into the next chapter!

*OMAKE #1*

Excepting that single unintentional remark from Herkus, Hannibal noted that the younger man did enjoy his respite from the horrors of his mind. Hannibal await for the day when that horror would no longer repulse him and instead become something of a delight.

He longed to share his thoughts with the clever mind, with Will no longer tightly bound to the moralities that the empath had enclosed around him. Longed to take the empath's body and soul, learned how his physique unfurled beneath him as his beautiful sapphire eyes gleamed even brighter, striated like cut jewels, under the low lights of his bedroom.

Most of all, Hannibal longed to hear those plump, fleshy lips mouthing his name, with skin so flushed that they scorched under his touch, leaving trails of heat that would burn even hotter like the tail of comets and left the man into a pliable mess. So soft and inviting.

Hannibal faced upfront, smiling with veiled teeth, "Verse, I'm afraid your thoughts had leaked into my POV." Then, to readers, "As did you." His eyes creased, the shape narrowed sharply like a jagged knife. "What's to be done about that?"

*Verse and readers/Hannigram fans scampered away in panic in all directions while gripping tight to their binoculars* "Abort mission! ABORT!"

*OMAKE #2*

In which Hannibal's wish come true so quickly.

Hannibal blinked at seeing Will bedraggled look, a white towel hanged from his head to nape as he ruffled his damp hair and equally damp shirt with said item.

"Did the storm make a reappearance?"

There was an almost accusing look in his eyes. Almost. Though it was subdued by the odd smile that he'd assumed. "Apparently, Herkus' hands move a lot when he's sleeping. A lot. I think half of the tub was emptied."

"I must commend your successfulness to overcome the trial," Hannibal replied solemnly. He observed the damp white shirt. Although it hadn't the quality of being transparent—Hannibal's clothes were made of excellent fabrics—he could see the tinted colour of Will's skin. "Perhaps you would prefer to change into another shirt? That looks rather uncomfortable."

*BONUS: Merry Christmas*

Verse: Hello, readers! How do you like the chapter? Herkus is getting cuter by the second, isn't he?

Herkus: If you would please watch your tongue, Verse...you do want to keep it, don't you?

Verse: *Snapped mouth shut and nodded* Uh-hum. Sorry. So, Henrikas, do you want to say anything to readers?

Herkus: *Give a beaming smile* I hope you enjoy the holiday with your loved ones. Please don't drink too much during this festive season because your liver will be unpalatable—

Verse: —he means you'll hurt your kidneys. But yeah, please don't drink too much. And don't drunk driving!

Herkus: You're getting sidetracked, Verse.

Verse: Oh yes. Henrikas, if you would please...?

Herkus: *Sigh* Dead readers (Verse: He means dear), Happy Yuletide.

Verse: Merry Christmas! Hope you get the vacation y'all deserves. See you next decade!