Synopsis: If she had a world of her own, everything would be nonsense. Everything would be what it isn't. Contrary wise, what it is, it wouldn't be. And what it wouldn't be, it would, you see? Hemlock Potter is falling down the rabbit hole. After all, no exceptional soul is exempt from a mixture of madness. Will/Fem!Harry/Hannibal.

WARNINGS FOR THIS FIC: Cannibalism (This is a Hannibal fic, after all XD), Gore, Murder, Large Age difference in a romantic setting, M/F/M, Manipulation (On every single side of the table), Warped morality, Delusions, exploration of themes of decadence, madness and existential crisis's, serial killers, forensic pathology, heavy philosophical debates and exploration, surrealism in some parts, streams of consciousness and a heavy-handed use of dramatic irony. And blood. Lot's an' Lot's of blood… Some guts too. Definitely organs. If none of this is your cup of tea, run. Run now lol.

PROLOGUE: DELIGHTFUL

Harry's P.O.V

Just a few months. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One hand. Just five months. Hemlock Potter could do that. She could. She would. She had to. In five months time, she would turn seventeen, the age of majority in the wizarding world. At seventeen, as a witch herself, she could legally buy a little house off a coastline somewhere far away, one with a little herb garden and hanging baskets, gain lawful employment and take splendour in all that was adulthood, sans war, killing and horcruxes. She could almost laugh. From eleven years of age, the ministry had been perfectly fine in allowing a child to win their war, to sacrifice themselves like a timid little lamb, all downy fur and crooked hooves, but afterwards? After the war? After they had used her up, chewed her marrow and sucked her fat and spat the husk of herself back out? Oh no, she had to obey the law. She needed a guardian. It was only right. Fuck 'em. Fuck the lot of them. Toys were only enjoyed when they were shiny and new, all brass tacks and jolly green, not dented and splattered with blood from the time they used said toy to bash another's skull in.

"You'll like her Harry, she's a lot like your mother."

She felt like a walking, talking clock. Ticking away. Tick, tock, or tock, tick. Maybe it was neither. Perhaps both. All and nothing. Only, she felt more fluid, dripping, leaking, more reminiscent of that Salvador Dali painting. Her face wasn't right. Her numbers were sliding, skewed, twos where sixes used to be and her big and small hands only trembled as they fruitlessly tried to continue their cycle. A broken, melted, useless clock ticking or tocking to a beat not meant to exist. That is what she was now. Each second that passed her by, her dribbling, skewered arm was waving it away, shedding the time, turning her back on temporal existence. Time did not matter. It was stable, linear, it would pass and Harry, as she liked to be called, would finally be free. Time was a human construct. There was no past or future, just now, just the present. A flash and flare of momentary existence. A fluidized ebb of consciousness that was forever morphing. Nothing lasted. Neither would her confinement in America.

"It'll be just for a few months, once you turn seventeen, legally, you can do as you wish."

Her only gratitude was to the fact that she would not be relinquished back into the care of her darling and dearest aunt and uncle. No. That time, the cupboard, the beatings, the hunger, that was passed. Temporary. Everything was interim, nothing permanent, and this new place would be the same. Tom had taught her that. Nothing, no one, not even a god itself, could last forever. Tick tock, tick tock. Just like a heartbeat.

"Don't you want to get to know your family?"

What was family? Harry didn't know. The concept was alien. Foreign. An infection. People like her, like Riddle, they didn't get to have sentimentality. Emotions and connections and compassion were for the safe. Harry had never been safe. The war was over, but that hadn't changed. Safety was just another illusion, another construct, a little fable you would tell yourself so you could sleep at night. Harry didn't need anesthetic ideology. She needed that pebbled beach and solitude. Others, well, they were the ones who said she needed family. Her parents were dead. Petunia and Vernon wished for nothing to do with the freak and now, apparently, she had another aunt, hidden away all this time, across the great pond the pilgrims had sailed, just waiting in the side-lines, wanting to meet her. Harry didn't trust it. She couldn't. Not after everything she had been through. Why now? How? When? Who?

"She's a doctor, a psychiatrist muggles call them, I believe. A doctor of the mind… How fascinating! Isn't it fascinating Harry?"

No, it wasn't fascinating… It was terrifying. Perhaps she would be a good person, this mind doctor, who had run from home as soon as she had turned of age. She who had cut all ties to their family by changing her name and emigrating. She who came back, nearly eighteen years later, wanting to know her niece. Perhaps. Perhaps. However, Harry knew it was never too long before the milk soured. Before the meat soiled or the flowers wilted. There would be something wrong, with her, with the place, with the situation. There always was. This would be no different. Distrust was the only way to hold back betrayal and Harry... She had lived through her fair share of betrayal before. She wouldn't fall to blind trust again, not since Tom's diary, and she wouldn't start again.

"There's a letter here for you, Harry. It says it's from Baltimore, America?"

Her letter had been… Perfunctorily polite and airy. Riddled with a dust of overzealous amicability and unfunded fondness. This strange aunt spoke of Lily, her mother, of recently hearing of her death, too late, always too late. She spoke of things she had no idea about and it only made Harry loath her more. What right did she have? Perhaps all the right and maybe none. She was a stranger and strangers brought unpredictability. When the ministry of magic had been looking for a guardian for Harry to live with until she turned seventeen, this doctor had been found, suspiciously easily in Harry's eyes, and upon hearing the sad, sordid tale of Harry's life, had jumped at the bit to meet the poor, orphan girl who had a serial killer hunting her for most of her life. As for how cover stories went, hers was eerily too close to the truth for Harry's comfort.

"You're looking tired Harry. Perhaps you can catch an hour or two on the plane over to America."

The ministry warned Harry that this doctor would question her. Of course she would, her sister was dead, her husband too and the strange aunt had only just heard about it. She had only just discovered a niece who she should have been informed about as soon as Lily passed, in case she wanted to petition Petunia for her guardianship. But, oh no. That would have gone against the great Dumbledore's plan, wouldn't it? Perhaps, with this doctor, Harry would have had a happy life, and then, when the time came, just maybe Harry wouldn't have been so willing to give it all up for the sake of the 'greater good'. Dumbledore couldn't have that. The ministry couldn't have that. So, this doctor had been kept in the dark, Harry had never heard of her and she had been shipped off to Petunia and Vernon, to the mold and damp and bruises.

"You never know Harry, you could be happy with this aunt."

Harry had never been given that option and what was done was done. She couldn't change that. Maybe she didn't want to. Who knew anymore. The fact of the matter was Harry was left here, flying to America with only half truths on her lips. It was easiest to stay as close to the truth as possible, so Shacklebolt told her, so Harry slipping and accidently outing the wizarding world was a slim chance indeed.

"Just stick as close to the truth as possible Harry. Change few facts… Hide the lies in truth and no one sees the rot."

Lily and James Potter, former MI5 agents who had been tracking an underground terrorist cell, were killed on October 31st, when a deranged serial killer and leader of the terrorist sect, obsessed with the ideology of immortality, broke into their home. James was murdered out in the hallway. Lily was killed standing over her child's crib, trying to protect the infant. The leader, who went by the moniker of Voldemort, went to kill the child, after having a delusion of a baby killing him, and in the struggle with her mother, a struggle that ended with Harry's burning scar, he was grievously injured, believed dead for many years.

"Repeat it back to me Harry. It's important you remember your story."

In a resounding fuck-up by child services, Harry was given to Petunia and Vernon without following proper protocol, who were not the best of parents to the child. They kept their abuse hidden, and none was the wiser. By age eleven, Harry had been granted into a gifted school, one her parents attended, and soon, the cards came tumbling down. Tom reappeared in her first year, having broken into her school, masqueraded as a teacher, and tried to bludgeon her to death with a stone. Second year he attacked again, abducting her friend, Ginny Weasley, and trying to poison Harry with snake venom. In third year, Harry's actual guardian who had been appointed by her parents, another member of the MI5 task team set to capture and quell this terrorist guerrilla movement, broke out of a mental asylum and came for her, only for it to come to light that he wasn't the one to sell her parents out to Tom and for it to be another friend and colleague, Peter Pettigrew. After Pettigrew escaped, with no proof of his innocence, Sirius was forced to go on the run, still trying to protect his goddaughter.

"No, Harry. Try again. You must get the story straight or your aunt, a well-respected psychiatrist, will tear it apart. Now, begin again."

In Harry's fourth year, Tom lashed out once more. With his own people in place, he infiltrated her schools' games, murdered her friend, Cedric Diggory, and tried to finish her off before Harry managed to escape. In her fifth year, having picked up on Tom's pattern of attack, Harry was superficially inducted into the same organisation her mother and father worked for, in an act to protect her. This obviously failed… Spectacularly. They were cornered in a building and Sirius… Sirius die-… Sirius…

"Can't I just stay here?"

"No. Dr Bloom has… Stubbornly requested a meeting with you and we have no ground to deny it. If we keep trying to push it back, she'll ask more questions and we don't need more people digging into anything else."

One of the heads of the MI5 department her parents worked for was murdered by Severus Snape, another member they believed to be on their side but was actually a turncoat. With Albus's death, it all fell down to ashes. Civilians were killed, government institutions were infiltrated and finally, it all came to a head right back where it all started. In a last ditch attempt, Tom attacked Harry's boarding school once more. Many people died, agents and civilians alike, but not before Severus Snape, who had been playing triple spy to hand them information on Tom's lot, passed Voldemort's location to Harry before he too kicked the bucket.

"We've doctored and created all the files necessary, with help from our contacts in the muggle services and government. All you must do Harry, is stick to your story. Just for the few months you'll be over there."

Harry, not wanting anyone else to get hurt, snuck off to face her dear ol' foe. She was fatally wounded in the little scuffle, but managed to stab Tom in the heart, ending the madness once his followers disbanded having seen their god-like leader killed by nothing but a child. Harry was then taken to an intensive care unit for her injuries where, just a few weeks ago, she received a seemingly innocuous letter from Baltimore.

"Perhaps it will do you good to get away from the wizarding world for a while. Away from all the… I heard Baltimore has amazing museums! Maybe you can visit them? And their parks are meant to be just beautiful!"

Oh, Harry had her story straight alright. Like an arrow, feathered and knocked and ready to fly. She was ready to lie and scheme and put on a happy little smile and coy eyes if only it meant a few hours of peace and quiet. Harry's eyes squeezed shut before she rapidly blinked, trying to even the momentary hitch of her breath. If she felt a hand on her shoulder, all spiderweb spindly and artic cold, if she saw black curls and a crimson gaze from the corner of her eye, then she would blink and she would lie. Tom was dead. Tom was gone. Tom wasn't coming back.

"Another nightmare? Do you want to talk about it or-"

"No. Just… No. I'm fine Hermione."

But Tom was a part of her. Her life. Her journey. Her soul. She is-… Was… Had been his horcrux. She had housed a shard of his inky, foul soul and she had seen him clearer, better, more deeply than anyone or anything ever could. That was a stain you couldn't scrub out. That was a smell you couldn't mask with perfume or impish smiles. That was a truth you couldn't split in half. When you look into the abyss, the abyss looks back and Tom knew her just as much as she knew him. Tainted. Corrupted. Spoiled. Soured.

"The 311 flight to Baltimore-Washington international is now preparing to land. Please engage your seatbelts. Thank you for flying with American airlines today and we all wish for you to have a pleasant and joyful journey and stay."

It took for the old lady next to Harry, a withered, greying being who smelt like mothballs and tar soap, to begin to click in her own seatbelt for Harry to realize the voice she heard wasn't a memory, nor just in her head. As her own seatbelt clacked into place, Harry let her eyes drift shut as she flopped back into her seat, her head lolling on the little headrest. Tom was dead. Final. Full stop. There was nothing to think, feel or say on that matter. Not for Harry. She needed to get her head in the game. She needed to think straight. She was going to be watched, questioned, observed. She couldn't slip up.

"First time flying dear?"

One eye cracked open to see the old lady staring at her, iris's milky and hazy and looking towards her hands. Harry glimpsed down and saw what the old lady did. Her knuckles had bled white and her fingers were currently imbedding themselves into the cushioned armrests, nearly tearing into the tacky fabric. Immediately her hands released their grip and Harry gave an idle chuckle.

"You could say that."

The old lady in Paisley's curiosity was somewhat slated by the way she turned back to her window, watching the clouds begin to swallow their little airplane as they descended back to earth. Half truths and shaded lies. It was true, Harry had never flown in a metal contraption, belted to a seat, surrounded by strangers before. She must admit, this form of flight left her feeling claustrophobic, hindered, more trapped than her well-loved broom.

Soon, however, it was all over. She was wrestling her duffle bag free, her only piece of luggage, scampering through docking terminals and wiggling through ticket turnstiles. By the time she reached the open, wide gatehouse, bubbling full of rushing people, a blur of talk, colour and smiling faces, it wasn't hard to pinpoint her aunt. The starkly white cardstock sign she was holding, simply reading Hemlock Potter, didn't give to any confusion either.

For a brief moment, Harry thought about walking away. She could see it. Blending into the crowd. Melting away fully. Becoming mist and fog that would slink away and seep back into the land, disappearing over craggy mountains. No one could reach her if she was fog. No one could hold mist and smoke. Not even the memory of Tom. She could cut everything free now. She could run. Escape. No one would know. She simply went missing on the airplane. Just another shadow lost.

But that wasn't true, was it? That was another half lie. A fantasy. She couldn't run. She couldn't hide. Not from her mind. Not from the memories. So, she did what she did best. She painted on an impeccable smile, she loosened her limbs and she moved forward with a spring to her step. Nothing but a mockery of a happy, easy-going teenager. No one could ever spot her forgeries. She was too good in creating masks and faces now. Another thing darling Tom had taught her. Perhaps, one day, far from now, she would start believing them too, a creator lost to its own creation. Harry found that poetic, in a way.

Her aunt was everything Petunia tried to be but wasn't. Beautiful, elegant, understated but flawless. Somehow, her aunt managed to blend aristocratic grace with a sort of comely homeliness. Next to her, Harry looked like a vagabond. Scuffed timberlands, torn jeans, a plain white T and a leather jacket two sizes too big because it used to belong to Sirius, just didn't match up right with the kitten heals, tight pencil skirt or flowery, silken blouse and rich green peacoat and scarf. Even her dark curls, a dark brown, were a shining waterfall compared to Harry's explosion of onyx frizz and rebellion.

"Hemlock, is that you? By god, your eyes…"

Either she was going to point out how unsettling the jade green shade was, as many who had not met her mother did frequently, or she would bring up their inexplicable resemblance to said mother, two forms of conversation Harry had plenty of experience in and wished not to venture into once more. So, a swift change of topic was in order.

"I'm assuming you are Mrs… Is it Mrs? Or Miss? Or Doctor? What do I call you?"

It was brushing on the rude side, but it flustered the doctor just enough to slide her away from her eye colour and Harry only looked to be a slightly jet-legged confused teen bumbling through an awkward meeting of a distant relative. Friendly, but endearingly blunt. A good face to wear. An affable blush ghosted along the swell of the doctor's cheeks at being subtly prodded at for not introducing herself. Harry felt almost bad for already elusively playing and warping words into reactions and conclusions she liked.

Almost.

"Of course, where have my manners gone! You can call me Alana, or Miss Bloom if that makes you feel more comfortable. I only use my doctor title with patients, not family. It's so good to finally meet you."

The outright lie of parroting back that it was good to meet Alana Bloom too died on her tongue. Harry, in honesty, wanted to be anywhere but here. She wanted her little cottage near a pebbled beach with a herb garden and hanging baskets. She wanted silence and peace. She wanted to rest. She didn't want to be playing muggle in a foreign land for five months. Relative or not. Still, the tangible temptation of that evasive concept of family was one even Harry couldn't fully deny. What would having a family mean? What would it be like having an aunt to care about, and to care about her? What would it feel like to have someone there?

"Just Harry… I go by Harry. Hemlock is such a pretentious name, is it not? And supposedly my mother always wanted a little boy called Harry."

Alana's smile faltered, just a crack, a splinter in the corner, before she nodded, and her grin grew stable and strong once more. Ah. She didn't like being reminded that she had missed her sister's death by a whole sixteen years. Harry needed to watch her words more carefully. She had grown up with her parent's death, Alana had not had that comfort. Wounds were still fresh for her, despite the knife having been dug in years ago. Fascinating, in a way, really. Silly too. Ghost's couldn't hurt you. Memories did. Alana would learn that. Everyone did. Harry was just ahead of the curve.

"Harry it is. Now, how about we get ourselves home and have a nice, hot meal? Sound good?"

The smile Harry gave was nothing but knotted root, broken stem, poisoned petal and damaged bulb, but all Alana saw was a rose garden. Maybe Hemlock did take after her name, poison most toxic, hidden innocuously in a little plant. If so, it was only because Dumbledore, Tom and Bellatrix made her this way, or perhaps cracked her human clay front, like a Jewish Golem, to let the poison weep out. What did it matter? All was temporal. All was glancing. Everything ended. Perhaps, for once being lucky, staying under the radar and sticking to her story wouldn't be too difficult of a task after all.

"That sounds delightful."

So… Do you like it? I hope you do! I am a bit hesitant about posting this fic, but well, if you're reading this, I've gone and posted it XD. This isn't going to be a light fic. It gets dark quite fast, though it seems pretty neutral and airy here, it is a strong M later (If I could I'd rate it R but this site won't let you, so, heads up.). So, if you're faint of heart, I'd leave. If not, welcome to the ride!

As for why I've gave Harry the female name of Hemlock rather than its gendered form of Harriet is, in this fic, I believe it fits better. Hemlock is the famous poison used to kill Socrates, the greek philosopher who formed such ideas as 'a statement is considered true if it cannot be proved wrong', and more importantly in this fic, Socrates put much emphasis on Virtue importance and morality, subjects Harry is going to delve deep into in this fic. Hemlock likes to grow in broken, disturbed and slightly shadowed places. Such as by fences, at the side of roads and by ponds. Hemlock is also, especially in Europe, tied to witchcraft. It hides very easily, being mistaken for other plants, and many people cross it without ever really knowing they have, a good metaphor for witches and wizards, especially ones from the Potter verse, while also being a good metaphor for Hannibal, Will and Harry herself. I just wanted to quickly clear that up and I hope it doesn't bother too many people.

Thank you all for taking the time to read this, and if you have a moment and wish to see more, drop a review letting me know! I love hearing from you guys.