Chapter Text
Dr. Hannibal Lecter was a tall, powerfully built man, thirty-six years of age, always elegantly attired in bespoke suits which would make a lesser man resemble a peacock. His fine fair hair, streaked with silver, was combed back to reveal a sharp widow's peak; his nose was aquiline, his cheekbones jutting, his wide mouth tightly drawn in an expression of serene stoicism. Most striking were his dark, deep-set eyes of a charred sienna brown, flecked with gold which at times seemed crimson.
Hannibal had been married to one Alana Bloom-Lecter for the past decade, much to the disappointment of many Baltimore debutantes and divorcees who found his persona - that of an enigmatic European gentleman-and-scholar- to be devastatingly attractive. He had wed Alana not out of anything so louche as love, but because he regarded her as his ideal match, complementing his own physical appearance, intellect and psychiatric expertise. Like many of his designs, their marriage was a success in the eyes of all; he was fond of her and had never been tempted to stray from their bed. But Alana's appeal paled beside that of their nine-year-old daughter Abigail, who inherited her mother's pale, pointed face, sheet of dark hair and intense blue eyes, as well as her father's ruthlessness, hidden misanthropy and talent for deception.
The Lecter residence was a large, tasteful house in the wealthier suburbs of Baltimore, filled with magnificent object d'art and a perpetually hushed atmosphere which mirrored that of the aesthete intimacy of Hannibal's downtown office. For the years he had been practicing, he was remarkably successful and well-respected, both in the field of child psychiatry and amongst the creme-de-la-creme of Baltimore society, able to indulge his socially-acceptable passion for studying physically and mentally deficient children alongside the children of privilege who made up the bulk of his practice.
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The day on which his life changed was irrevocably appeared much like any other; Hannibal sat behind his mahogany desk consolidating his coded notes about Frankie Froideveaux, a patient who had just left. Yet another materially spoiled but emotionally starved scion of the wealthy, Frankie attempted to fill his loneliness and self-loathing with food, resulting in a weight problem, and he sought attention and affection desperately. Hannibal sighed; Frankie was growing far too attached to him, projecting him as an ideal father figure, and his therapy was becoming useless and his behavior inappropriate. He would be referred to another psychiatrist soon, but not before a sickening display of tears and temper. Pathetic little pigs like Frankie should be snuffed out at birth, it was kinder in the long run, he mused.
Hannibal's meditation on the matter was shattered at the ring of his smartphone, Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. It was Jack Crawford, the Acting Associate Commissioner of the Children's Bureau in Washington, DC, who occasionally contacted Hannibal to consult on severe cases of child abuse and deprivation. Hannibal did not like Jack, but he tolerated his presence at his dinner parties to ensure his place as Jack's go-to consultant on such matters.
'Jack, it's a pleasure to hear from you,'
'Hannibal, I'm going to dispense with pleasantries. We have an urgent situation here and could do with your expertise.'
Hannibal smiled slightly, his appetite whetted. Even the irascible Jack Crawford was never quite so blunt, which suggested something truly out of the ordinary.
'Yes, I am only too happy to offer my services. Might I ask what this situation entails?'
Jack sighed.
'The short version is that a farmer in Wolf Trapp found a naked kid stealing his harvest, and when he shouted and chased after him, the boy escaped into the woods, loping like an animal. I don't know how, but it looks like we've got a case of a feral child on our hands. A team managed to chase him down and catch him, give him a tranquilizer. He's at the base now, but... Hannibal, you've got to see him to believe it. I've never seen anything like it in my twenty-five years working in child welfare. We could really use your help, before the media frenzy gets too crazy.'
'Has it reached the Tattler yet?'
'No, but somehow that damn Freddie Lounds got hold of the story. She's always sniffing around here from the latest scandal for that rag of hers; breaking the pedo priest story ten years ago wasn't enough. Her readers are always hungry for incest, abuse, molestation... And we've got plenty of it.'
Jack's voice was bitter, lost in thought. Hannibal had already donned his dapper peacoat, scarf and gloves.
'I'll be there in an hour, traffic providing.'
His heartbeat was heightened, as if with the trill of the hunt.
'Thanks, Hannibal. Don't worry, the kid's not going anywhere.'
Jack's laugh was grim, but Hannibal had already cut him off.