GAH! Finally! I've procrastinated for a lot of days *giggles* Anyway, this may be the last one for a while 'cause school's back and it's the final semester and I am mentally preparing myself for a few more breakdowns down the road.

And oh, hey! We reached chapter 10! Huzzah!

Okay, so, I hope you enjoy~!

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

Is this something he was going to ignore?

"What about you Mr. Graham?"

Will blinks because for a moment, suspicion heavily clouded his thoughts. It had muddled his sense for a tiny bit of moment that seemed almost insignificant. And beside him, Hannibal sat there as if it were a common occurrence to be in a juvenile center and be faced with indecipherable surety that should have, for all intents and purposes, alarmed any other normal human being.

"Pardon?"

"The world isn't linear with its motives." Marvolo spoke with an incredible amount of detachment, having made a good impression of talking to a child. "And the line of morality isn't as straight as it should be. Tell us, Mr. Graham, to what lengths would you reach for what you desire?"

It could have been said by an adult for all Will could think right now. It could have been words that tumble out of Hannibal's lips in the form of skillfully woven silk. Perhaps Will had grown desensitized with the oddness of these boys that he actually felt threatened to the degree of defensiveness reserved for the probing of nosy psychiatrists.

"I don't desire much," Will answered. Liar.

Marvolo smirked, amusement dancing across his red-green eyes, as if hearing the whisper in Will's mind. "Everyone has their desires, Mr. Graham. Would it have to take a mirror for you to see yours?"

There was a reference there that Will missed but his tongue remained knotted, his lips unmoving. His gaze strayed to the seat beside him, hoping for something that would break the boy's unnerving scrutiny from him. It was too intense, too interested. But Hannibal was absorbed into a quiet conversation with Hadrian Hobbs, clearly leaving Will and Marvolo to their own.

Will longed to feel the beautiful Stag breathing down his neck and having to focus on that instead of being a breath away from squirming in his seat because of a child. Whoever said karma came fast should be shoved in a room full of gnats.

Marvolo clicked his tongue, stopping Hadrian from his chatter about the existence of unicorns—and really, Hannibal would listen to that?—and somehow Will felt as if the boy—whichever one of them, he couldn't quite tell—was disappointed.

"There's no good or evil, Mr. Graham," Marvolo stated with an imploring gaze. "You're too blinded to see." Then the boy's smirk widened, briefly glancing at his twin. "Why don't you have, ah, another conversation with Dr. Lecter?"

Then they left, leaving Will with half-answers to questions he did not want to ask.

Beside him, Hannibal's face could have been carved from stone. The doctor's gaze trailed over to where the boys had left, eyes narrowed and calculating.

Will found his voice forming, feeling rather rattled. "Unicorns?" And it was all he could say.

"Creatures of purity and innocence," Hannibal answered—and it was as if Will was watching wax melt into pliable pieces that the doctor could easily mold—amusement lacing his tone despite his earlier gaze. "Hadrian was in the process of convincing me of their existence. He raises good points although I still find it hard to truly believe."

Will's face must have told the doctor something, or amused him to great end, because Hannibal offered a hand as he stood up, waiting for Will to take it. It didn't even register in Will's mind that he took it.

"They have the ability to see through the hearts of men." Hannibal continued as they stalked through the halls of the centre, Will's loafers making faint squeaks on the linoleum and Hannibal's remaining silent. "Children, he says, have the innocence that these creatures look for. Men do not."

Will glanced at him in puzzlement, not quite sure what point he is making. "And what do you think, Doctor Lecter?"

"Their innocence is not an entirely debatable matter." Hannibal inclined his head in thought, an odd, bird-like habit that the man seems to not have control over—and isn't it reassuring to know that the man is not always in perfect control. "The purity of their intentions, on the other hand, could be just as questionable as an aged man's."

"Are they?" Will wondered out loud, baiting the answer with the cover of this conversation they are having. He did not question Hannibal's seeming ignorance to his and Marvolo's conversation. "Innocent, I mean."

"Unicorns are not of existence in this world, Will." Then, he paused before continuing. "But perhaps they do."

Will bit his lip. If even Hannibal was unsure, he didn't know if there would ever be a clear answer in the near future.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

It was with his pack sleeping soundly around him that Will found himself that night.

With the months fast approaching winter, the air was cold enough to call for the use of a heater. The fireplace had also been lit but it was unable to completely chase away the cold. The dogs huddled close to the fire and the heater, Will having already dragged their beds close to it.

A bottle of whiskey lay beside him, its contents only a small amount that stagnated at the bottom. Will reached out, attempting to take another swig before seeing its emptiness. He put it down with a sigh and resisted the urge to throw it at the wall, opting instead to close his eyes and to scrub his hands at his face.

He had attempted to sleep a while ago but his mind refused to slow down and rest, too coiled up and tense.

The events of the day continued to play over and over inside his mind, thinking that maybe he had missed something. Questions swirled around his head and they didn't slow down for Will to actually mull over it. His mind was a jumbled mess of confusion and maybe he shouldn't have finished an entire bottle of whiskey because his head was throbbing now.

He resisted the urge to scream what the fuck is happening because the silence and the crackling of the fire and the humming of the heater were just too peaceful to disturb.

His fingers idly drew on his thighs, the storm in his mind covered up by the deceiving calmness of his body, betrayed only by his hands. Over and over again, his fingers drew the symbol on his skin. The Deathly Hallows. It wasn't the official name, just something written on the sidelines of the reports. It was odd but it was something to call it. It sure sounded ominous enough.

Something itched at the back of his mind, something that had bothered him ever since he saw the symbol—but it had been there before he even saw it on Jack's phone or carved into a skull. It buzzed and tingled, enough to be noticed but not enough to be distracting.

Blinking slowly into the fire, Will focused on that buzzing now. It was better than the raging storm that he couldn't control. Calmer, steadier, and somewhat familiar. The rhythmic throb of his head appeased and he focused on it.

He sighed and the buzzing grew louder.

And louder.

And it wasn't deafening.

It tingled harder.

Then, quite suddenly, he was submerged into darkness.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

He was floating. It was a certain sensation of rocking back and forth, gently swaying to the small ripples of the ocean. The sky was dark and the water below the boat—boat?—was glowing ever so slightly.

He cast a glance around, staring straight ahead where he knew something should have stood.

The silence was incredibly eerie and the thick fog slowly covering his sight made him slightly distressed.

He was on a boat in the middle of an ocean without a beacon of light to guide his way. The water was glowing slightly but that didn't tell him where he should go. There was no patch of land for him to dock; no jutting rock to break the sight of fogged, glowing ocean and dark sky.

"Hello?"

His words didn't echo; its sound sucked in by the darkness. Will frowned. This was a dream, he was certain of it. Even if his awareness should not be sharp, a voice whispered that this was a dream. He believed it; the scene reminded him of seeing his house as the floating beacon; his safe haven in the midst of drowning in the water.

He shifted, not entirely surprised when the boat remained steady and bobbing with the invisible winds and ripples. Then, knowing there was no risk of falling, Will stood up to look around, hoping to have some clue as to what this particular dream wants him to see.

Nothing.

He stared up the darkness and closed his eyes. It was almost…serene. Slowly, the tenseness of his shoulders lightened as the bobbing lulled him into calm. A silent breeze he did not feel blew at his curls.

Will opened his eyes and sat down, scooting over to the edge of the boat to stare at the water. It was a glowing blue and his reflection stared at him, clear with a mirror-like quality. Curious at its stillness despite his boat's bobbing, Will reached out to touch, half-expecting his fingers to meet the hard surface of a mirror instead of water (it's water—waterwaternothingelsetouchit—)

His fingers sank in. It felt cool and warm in his hands and he wiggled his fingers, blinking at its calm.

Without warning, his boat tipped over, throwing him down the water. Instinct had him clenching his eyes shut and holding his breath.

He felt a moment of panic and struggled before he remembered that he knew how to swim. He kicked his feet and paddled his arms to get him in an upright position. He continued to do so, the fall having made him feel disoriented.

Will realized something was wrong when he couldn't seem to break through the surface of water and into air. He couldn't have fallen in too deep; he could still feel the coolness and warmth of the strange water no matter how much he kicked and paddled.

Risking opening his eyes—because this was the ocean and it's waternothingelse—Will found himself in utter darkness. And this time, there was nothing glowing to make him see where he is. He sucked in a breath, having let his thudding heart get the better of him before realizing how utterly stupid it was to suck in a breath under water, no matter if it is a dream (yesss, it's only a dream).

It seems his panic was for naught when he felt the coolness and warmth enter to his lungs and did not end up choking.

Curiosity sparked, Will put a hand on his chest, the other on his throat, and inhaled.

Exhaled.

Inhaled.

Exhaled.

The sensation of having liquid enter and exit his lungs was decidedly weird but…nice. He doubted it would feel as nice in the real world, obviously.

He stilled his body and basked in the calmness of the moment.

There, floating in the darkness of his dream—no, no not dream, but it's a dreamit'sadreamit'sadreamWill—Will felt himself ease into his skin and the disquiet that mounted in the past few weeks numbed.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

"So Will." Beverly grinned at him smugly as she stuffed a slice of her cinnamon roll into her mouth. "What has you…glowing…today? Finally got laid?"

Will nearly choked on the coffee he was sipping—dumped full of unhealthy amounts of sugar; something he indulges in once in a while—but managed to swallow it. A small cough still escaped his lips.

"Excuse me?"

The forensic scientist snorted, lip twitching at Will's not-spluttering. "You're better than you were yesterday. Definitely less tense."

"Ah." Will sipped on his mug, feeling unsure of the casualty presented and the fact that she'd noticed. "I had a good night's sleep is all."

She almost looked disappointed in his answer.

Well, what did she expect? Will wasn't exactly "laying" material. Occasionally, he would flirt with the idea (sometimes does it too), but "occasionally" is still a rather broad term to use. Besides, he really did just wake up feeling lighter than he ever did. Of course, that was until the woman sitting in front of him basically kidnapped him from Wolftrap and into this tiny café in the farthest niche of Quantico.

It wasn't all that bad. The food is good and it's not as if Will lacks the money to pay. It may just be the company but he would admit to himself that Beverly Katz is easy to get along with. Just that she's too talkative for Will to ever truly enjoy. Small doses and all that.

"Why'd you drag me out for?" Will eventually asked, his newly found balance reflecting on his posture and speech. "I thought Jack had you busy in the lab."

"We are." Beverly amends, polishing off the plate with the last slice of her pastry. "And I also know you're continuing the investigation with the bossman's orders. And so we can't really have your pretty head at our beck and call down in the labs."

Oh. Suddenly, her motives became clearer. He doesn't tense. Will gently puts down the mug and crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. "You know we could have just talked about it at the bureau."

"We could have." She sips at her drink. "But I want a break from staring at dead bodies for a bit. And besides, you owed me a drink, remember?"

Will sighed. He did kind of forget that. "So what did you want to know?"

"Nothing the reports don't say." Beverly shrugged and propped her chin up with a hand, slouching in her seat as she did so. "It's just—" She scratches her nose with a frown. "I feel like we're missing something."

"We're always missing something." Will snorted, slightly marveling at how easy his responses came.

Beverly rolled her eyes. "Yes, yes. That's why we have our jobs." She crossed her arms and leaned back on her seat in barely concealed agitation. "But anyway, I know we're missing something. We've established that Budish killed all the other victims. Someone else killed Budish; okay, we got that. Miriam Lass' hair was found at the scene; suspicious but the evidence is there. So why would Nicholas Boyle take a go with Budish?"

Will's breath stops for a moment and his eyes widened. It was lucky that Beverly was aggressively stirring her drink and had her eyes focused on setting it on fire instead of observing Will.

Deep breaths. Think of the coolness and warmth of the dark. You know your way around these things.

Will's voice remained steady, he even managed to make it sound curious, "Nicholas Boyle? The Copycat Killer?"

"Yeah." Beverly looks up and pierces Will with a tired—and grateful?—look. "I just don't get it." Her voice rose though it remained quiet enough not to arouse the curiosity of other patrons. "Nicholas Boyle does not fit the profile. Why would he kill his own sister?! Their parents' statements don't even point to any type of sibling rivalry. Or sibling intimacy for that matter."

Heart thudding at his chest, Will considered his options. It was quite clear that Beverly hadn't voiced her concerns to the others so with the right words, Will could easily stop her suspicions from forming. But then if he were to make only a bit of error, Beverly Katz would find out. He won't insult her intelligence and underestimate her; one did not become part of Jack Crawford's favorite team by merely having sharp tongues and inappropriate humor.

"No, he doesn't." Will closes his eyes, as if trying to recall. Abigail, think of Abigail. "Nicholas Boyle was merely a student. He doesn't have enough resources to ever do it to Cassie Boyle."

"Hah!" Beverly scoffed. "So he isn't the Copycat."

"He is," Will says with a shrug. If he were to say the next things with confidence, Beverly wouldn't push. "Marissa Schurr was killed by Nicholas Boyle. That one is certain."

The key is to misdirect. Will didn't have to be awfully elaborate in his reasoning to have her draw her own conclusions. It helps that Will had always been short with his words. And Will watched as she made the connections in her head.

Beverly stares at him with squinted eyes, mind racing at the prospects. "What you're saying is that…there are two of them."

"We have considered the possibility." There, that would stop her from approaching Jack even if he knew she wouldn't, not without evidence. Will takes his mug in hand but was careful not to fiddle with it even if he wanted to. "What does this have to do with Budish?"

Beverly stares down at her glass, still stirring.

Will resists the urge to fidget.

"Nothing I'm sure of yet." She eventually says and Will tensed. "But I'll have to go look around first. Don't worry your pretty little head, Graham, you'll have to prepare for our import. I'm sure you'd take the brunt of it. Along with that wonderful doctor of yours."

Will gave her a flat look from which she responded with a laugh.

He let a small smile curve at his lips.

Hook, line, and sinker.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

They arrived at the bureau with Will slightly deafened because Beverly liked keeping the volume of her music loud enough to drown out the sound of the engine. He wouldn't have suffered through that if only he was in his own car. But of course, the woman had bodily dragged him into her car, ignoring his protests.

Thank God his keys hadn't fallen on the ground.

Now, take-out coffee cup in hand (this one completely black), he was torn between going to the archives—a rather useless venture considering that this particular investigation was solely done overseas—or accompanying Beverly down in the labs. Of course, he could always go and prepare his lesson plans but Jack had had him excused for a few days yet.

Then again, Will guessed that he has to retrieve the files first no matter what he wanted to do for the day.

So, with Beverly it is. Because somehow—and Will knew this was deliberately done, and no one who had been in the room were easily fooled—Jack forgot to take it back from the clutches of Brian Zeller.

Petty, yes, but clever nonetheless. Will didn't have to go through paper works just to get a single file and Jack didn't have to explain why Will would want access to the file. It's been legally halted, after all.

In all the honesty Will possessed—not much, you utter liar—he was unsure why he has to continue the investigation. He was curious, yes, but the dread that formed at the pit of his stomach is rather hard to ignore.

Officially, the murders weren't called anything and Will certainly found it annoying that he would have to call it "the murders" in his head or when referring to it. And it was rather ambiguous. Perhaps that term—maybe even with capitalizations—had been enough for the people in Europe to know which news they are talking about but certainly not here where the murders weren't big news.

They're afraid to name something so horrifying, a part of Will's mind concluded. Maybe it was. Naming it would have made it all the more real and the extent of the murders—if going by what he could remember from his brief research on it when he first came across the information and the sheer thickness of the file sent over—had been massive. Or perhaps it had been in the hopes of minimizing the effect. "The Murders" is rather simplistic and all around uninspiring.

But he remembered one blog—a weird, hippy-looking thing whose name maybe started with a "Q"—that had named it. The Twisted Gallows, it called them. The blogger never mentioned why. Will only remembered it because the content was rather amusing. Apparently, the blogger was rather fond of conspiracy theories and have determined that the Gallowses (because they couldn't possibly be done by a single person) were victims of the government's thirst for immortality or some such stuff and was 'determined to unleash their fury' (word-for-word) on the people.

It was entertaining enough that Will had been able to relax some of the tension that formed when he'd been traipsing through the World Wide Web.

They arrived at the lab in no time and Will, completely lost in thought, almost smacked into the closing doors but managed to snap a hand at the handle and prevented an embarrassing show of absentmindedness.

"Mornin'!"

Zeller had an annoyed look in his face as Beverly greeted them. "Aren't you running a bit late."

"Sorry Z." Beverly sauntered over to her side of the room, not even sparing the other males a glance. "Had myself a date with gorgeous Graham over there."

Zeller, who was about to follow-up his response, completely shut his mouth and snapped a glare at Will's direction.

Price seemed to sense the oncoming tension and chose to intervene. "Isn't that a bit unprofessional?"

"Oh come off it," Beverly answered in an overly posh tone. "He owed me."

Will rolled his eyes, choosing to not take the bait Zeller unwittingly made himself to be. "Of course I did." The circumstances of his debt were not something that should even be considered in an 'I-owe-you' basis. Beverly was honestly stretching it a bit. "If kidnapping me counts, sure."

"Excuse you Graham, I did not kidnap you."

"I don't have a car now," Will sighed, truly frustrated this time. "How am I going to go home?"

"Take a cab." Zeller snapped, obviously still quite angry at Will for some reason. "It's easy to do."

Seeing as Zeller was still trying to antagonize him, Will decided he'd leave them be as soon as he retrieved what he went down here for. "Where's the file?"

Price gestured over to one of the cabinets. "It's there. Won't miss it."

Will nodded and brusquely took the file when he saw it. He spared a nod to the three—to Zeller more out of courtesy than anything—and went on his way to his pseudo office. He couldn't very well be at his lecture hall. Alana is there, busy substituting for him.

While walking, Will suddenly faltered in his steps as a thought occurred to him.

Brian Zeller and Beverly Katz?

Then he resolved to himself that it wasn't his business. Zeller could pine over Beverly all he wanted. Will doesn't even think he and Beverly could exist with each other for more than a day.

Steps a bit slower than his previous speed, Will made it to his office and dumped the thick file on his desk.

He stared at it long and hard, and then sighed.

Ignoring the uncomfortable twist in his gut, Will settled himself for a long day ahead.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

"This is your final opportunity to comply. On your feet, Dr. Gideon, or we will restrain you."

He doesn't move, doesn't dare to breathe. Even a twitch would clue them all in. He tasted blood—his blood—in his mouth. Sweat dripped down his nose and forehead in his effort to repress the pain.

The cell doors opened with a ring and buzz.

"Turn over and lace your finger behind your head," One of them barked.

He heard rustling as they surrounded his prone body and Abel almost let himself be caught when one of them touched his neck to check his pulse. He didn't press hard enough to find it.

"Get a gurney!"

Idiots, Dr. Gideon thought as they loaded him up.

He waited, patiently biding his time despite the temptation. Soon, he was in the infirmary and alone with the nurse. Such lax security, do they honestly deserve to be an institution for the criminally insane?

His clothes were torn open and Dr. Gideon briefly lamented over the rough treatment. Electrodes were put on his chest and the chill of it bothered him.

The wound he had inflicted in his wrist throbbed in reminder and he peeked open an eye to check on his surroundings.

The nurse remained with her back turned to him and Dr. Gideon slowly bent his fingers to reach the piece of sharpened tine he had secreted away into his skin and carefully pulled it out, eyes blinking rapidly in pain. Finally having it in hand, Dr. Gideon fumbled with the handcuffs, doing it with utmost care to avoid having the fork tine—bloodstained sticky—slip from his fingers

Once his hand became free from the handcuff, Dr. Gideon cast a glance at the careless nurse and did a fast job of freeing his other hand.

He sat up, silent in his movements, and slowly made his way towards her. Unfortunately, the heart rate monitor made a long beeping noise as it disconnected from him.

He didn't pause but neither was there anticipation for what he is going to do.

She turned around at the noise and he was ready for it. Dr. Gideon pulled his hand back and delivered a swift punch to her throat. The nurse gasped futilely and stumbled to a corner and Dr. Gideon followed, grabbing her collar in both hands and lifting her up with force.

He stared into her eyes, searching. Fear reflected back at him.

Dr. Gideon tossed her on the ground.

Useless, his mind spat.

He straddled the gasping nurse and held her cheeks. He tried, again, and stared deep into her eyes.

Who? Who is he?

Her dark eyes were wide with fear.

Nothing.

Dr. Gideon shushed her but she continued on her incessant attempt at breathing. He must have hit her too hard. It didn't matter.

His thumbs trailed down from her forehead and onto her useless eyes. She's shaking now, trembling in fear and pain and Dr. Gideon didn't even really find himself relishing in it. He was, above all things, confused and searching for himself through her eyes. But it was useless.

Anger simmered deep in his mind.

Dr. Gideon pressed his thumbs until her eyes were crushed and blood seeped out of the sockets.

He tried to admire his work but didn't find satisfaction.

The nurse—Ms. Shell?—crawled away from him, screams silent. As if she could run away.

Dr. Gideon looked around and moves to a collection of IV poles and detaches one. He padded over to the crawling, pitiful nurse and stabs the pole without a second thought.

:::…~~~-0-~~~…:::

"Longbottom!"

He silently stepped inside the office, carefully closing the door behind him.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, a man with dark skin and body that spoke of his capability as the head of the Law Enforcement, regally sat behind his desk and gestured for him to sit down.

"You called for me, sir?" Neville obediently sat down and repressed the urge to fidget with his hands. It was never a good habit to show your nervousness in front of their boss—Kingsley Shacklebolt in particular.

"We received intel that the murders started again." Mr. Shacklebolt uttered it as if it were grave news.

Neville took a moment to realize what 'murders' they were talking about and when he did, he was quite unable to do anything besides feel his blood drain from his face. "What?"

"I understand this might be a cause for distress, Mr. Longbottom," Mr. Shacklebolt sighed, eyes gleaming in sympathy at the pale young man. "But the board has decided that out of all the available agents we have, you are the best candidate to send as a representative to handle the case."

"But—" Neville spluttered, fear and indignation and righteousness battling for his reaction. "I- shouldn't I be the last to be chosen?"

"You know them much more than anyone else," Mr. Shacklebolt reasoned even though he seems to also find it disagreeable. "And your papers have all been settled."

Neville clenched his fists, indignation winning out.

Many seconds ticked by before the department head let out an explosive sigh. "Neville." Kingsley pursed his lips. "Haven't you been looking for an opportunity like this? I've seen your notes, you know a lot about them. You're the reason the investigation is still ongoing for the last five years."

"I—"

"Before you decline, Neville, consider the people you could save if you find them—and you will; you're great in your field. You've studied their patterns much more vigorously than anyone else I know and if anyone is to ever be qualified for this case, it's you."

"It's too personal; I can't be in the case—"

"The board has decided, Neville." Kingsley sent him a stern yet apologetic look. "I can't do much about it now."

Neville gave a defeated sigh. "When do I leave?"

"Tomorrow evening."

:::…~~~-0-~~~~…:::

So there it is! I have no fucking idea what is happening *blinks* They just went on and made themselves like that. Poor Will, I sympathize. BTW, "torture" came from a latin word with the meaning "twisted". It was kind of funny when I googled it.

Also, Beverly Katz's fate has been decided!

"Maybe a different approach…?" – 9

"I know exactly what you are implying. Please don't." – 8

"Go for canon!" – 4

So that basically means you leave it up to me! *cackles* Whether she dies or not will always be a mystery to all of you now. It just won't be like canon. I mean, if "Please Don't" won, I would have made sure she lives a peaceful life. And anyway, Power of Universe has given me a great idea for that one.